


Family of Foxes

by AudreyBanksWard



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Affection, Alaska, Alternate Universe, Anticipation, Bathing/Washing, Cabins, Cigarettes, Cunnilingus, Daryl Dixon Smut, Desperation, Desperation Play, Dirty Talk, Dogs, Dreams and Nightmares, Drinking, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, Dubious Ethics, Explicit Language, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Fingerfucking, Forced Orgasm, Full Moon, Fur, Geographical Isolation, Gratuitous Smut, Hand & Finger Kink, Hiding, Hunters & Hunting, Hurt/Comfort, Interrogation, Isolation, Medical Procedures, Medical Torture, Medical Trauma, Morning Wood, Mystery, Negan (Walking Dead) is his own warning, Nightmares, Nipple Play, Non-Consensual Cuddling, Oral Sex, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay, Owls, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Past Torture, Past Violence, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rabbits, Rough Sex, Running Away, Secrets, Sex, Shameless Smut, Sleep Sex, Slow Burn, Smoking, Snow, Stitches, Suspense, Talking Trees, Teasing, Temper Tantrums, Torture, Vaginal Fingering, Virginity Kink, Whiskey & Scotch, Wilderness, Wilderness Survival, Wolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-09-17 18:35:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 52,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9337814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AudreyBanksWard/pseuds/AudreyBanksWard
Summary: After escaping mysterious captors, a nameless girl is found hiding out in the Alaskan wilderness by an archer bent on patching her up. In an isolated cabin, miles away from everything, Daryl does his best to work on his bedside manner.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place in Coldfoot, Alaska - a town I chose for the aesthetic value of its name. I employed a fair amount of creative license with regard to its geography (i.e. its proximity to surrounding towns and forests, the availability of game in that region). Rather than torment myself with research (I have a habit of doing so then never writing the story) I decided to satisfy myself with the details. Same goes for enacting medical procedures and survivalist living in the Alaskan wilderness.

     Daryl was born off the grid in Coldfoot, Alaska, and he remained off the grid. His momma’d brought him to the run-down cabin he still calls home not a week after he was born; raised him, died, and nothing more was said about it. He’d buried her twenty feet from the shack without knowing what a solitary thing it was, burying the only person he’d ever had private words with, loving or not. It was bitter cold on the day he put her in the ground. Was never anything but cold and windy where he lived, and doubtless that day his pitiful heart howled, empty and shrill, over a vast wilderness where no one would ever hear it. He’d turned around when he was done patting the dirt down with his shovel, calmly walked back to the house. Slipped his mind to put a marker on her grave. No matter, he wouldn’t forget the spot where she laid. That night the moaning wind sang its chorus into the nothingness, like a dirge carrying his bitterness with it to the North.

     Coldfoot could be described as an ashtray big enough to be littered with beer cans and meth pipes. Daryl rarely ventured into the city; he had a quality of unyielding solitude that emanated from him like a feral aura of sorts. His detached temperament radiated off him in waves, apparent in his gait and in his countenance - and because men were cursed with infinite adaptability, this rabid emptiness became his nature. If it’s true that a man could grow accustomed to anything, even the worst things, and come around to taking pleasure from it, then his story is everyone’s story. Though not even he could admit as much.

***

     He found her curled up in some kind of makeshift foxhole, a hiding spot, covered in fresh wounds. He could almost smell her blood, taste it on his tongue, accented by fear and wet mud. The air was heavy with it. Her hair hung long, nearly black with filth, unwashed and knotted. The look on her face said clearly she was in shock - panting and curled into herself as if she were trying to disappear entirely. He’d never hid himself in a foxhole, but he understood the look in her eyes. Behind them was desolate place, a yawning wasteland she could no longer afford to occupy.

     Daryl’s head looked up from where she’d hidden herself and observed the area silently, watching and listening for potential predators. No one had been searching for her, no one was in pursuit, and the only visible tracks were theirs. He’d been scouring the snowy woods for food, his crossbow resting against his thigh as he squatted and eyed her carefully. His impassive stare made her body shake harder and her eyes were slightly bulged with a terror that seemed to envelope the rest of her face like a dark shadow. She wore a loose white stained thing so ripped and soiled it could hardly be called a dress anymore. Had Daryl’s face been awash in sympathy it might have served to lessen her mounting consternation. Had there been a look on his face to assure her that he was a family man, or a man with a wife, or just a man with dignity who treats people well and is moved by desperation - it'd have calmed her. She’d have been relieved to see strains of compassion on his face, but what stared at her only appeared nebulous and unreadable. 

     Neither of them moved. In her foggy prison of hysteria she assumed the worst and began panting harder with rising anxiety. Her eyes darted from one side of the trench to the other, desperate for a way out. Daryl took in her fright like he was hearing a story he knew by heart, one that he could recite without even looking at the words. It was her trepidation which elicited from him a dispassionate reaction. He felt a kind of bitterness toward people in need, knowing well that panic and dread were the stuff of life. His life. If he had found a way to keep going, everyone else could manage it as well. With no one around to foster his empathy he had very little. Perhaps that lent a cruelty to his demeanor that not even he could recognize.

     What crawled out of his mouth stunned them both with its tenderness,” Aint gon' hurt ya, darlin’. Got a nice set up ‘bout a mile from ‘ere. Don’t know no doctors or nothin’, but I aint a stranger to tendin’ wounds. Can get ya cleaned up some.” 

     His words were slow, drawn out and accented as though he weren’t used to talking. His voice ran thick and slow as molasses and countered the stoic look on his face. 

     “C’mon then,” he continued, reaching a hand toward her. 

     Predictably, his sudden movement caused further alarm, and she scrambled backwards, though there was nowhere to go.

_Like a goddamn wounded animal_ he though to himself, examining her with a penetrative gaze. _Bleedin’ all over the place too._

     “Aint gonna last the day if I leave ya,” he said finally.

     Silence, save for the sound of her heavy panting. Her breath came so quick he figured he might just wait it out till she fell over from exhaustion.

     “Gotta com’n get ya out then,” he mumbled with a heavy sigh. As Daryl stood and began to remove the branches that covered the hole she’d all but buried herself in, he whispered to himself, “Probbly aint gon’ like that none.”

     He worked at removing the pine branches while her pants quickly became whimpers, her head darting in all directions in search of a means of escape. 

     “C’mon out here, honey, aint nobody here to hurt ya, got ma word on that. An I can't just leave ya here,” he spoke and moved slowly, not wanting to make matters more difficult by startling her. Finally he realized no amount of coaxing would soothe her, so he just went for it and took a few steps forward. 

     As he lay his hand gently on her ankle she finally lost it in earnest, screaming like an animal caught in a trap. He’d already resigned himself to the poor job he’s done of calming her as he finished deconstructing her hideout. Whether from exhaustion, blood loss , fever or shock she finally lost consciousness in her struggle to get away.

     “Tryna help ‘er not kill ‘er,” he mumbled dejectedly to himself. Crouching down Daryl removed his fur lined hunting coat, wrapping it around her, gathering her gently. He hissed and sucked in his breath when her cuts became more visible to him.

     “Jesus, fuck, yer a mess,” looking down at his bundle. “Let’s getcha outta here,” he whispered.

     Carrying her through the cold Alaskan wind, he walked the path home with purposeful steps.

***

     Daryl kicked open the door to the wood cabin and was immediately greeted by dogs. He lay the unconscious girl on a rug in front of the fire, covering her with the fur of some animal he couldn’t remember killing. He fed the flames with kindling until it gave off more heat and looked down at her, wondering if she was dead. He wrapped a rough, threadbare blanket around her body, still draped with his coat, doing his best to rub her arms and legs to infuse them with warmth. She was painfully malnourished and it hurt him some to look at her. Whatever place that’d held her did so for too long. 

     He took in the scars on her legs that had healed over poorly, covering them again with the blanket. He’d have to bandage her cuts tightly if he wanted to keep her from bleeding on his floor. She was pleasant to look at, he noted, and he wondered if this is what had gotten her into trouble in the first place. He saw enough of the world to know that it wasn’t entirely peopled by those who knew how to simply admire a pretty thing; many were inspired towards anger for just that reason. He was of a mind then that a pretty young girl unguarded was prey in any circumstance.

     Daryl periodically looked down at her face as he quickly tore strips of cloth to tie off the bleeding. He actually hoped she’d make it through with her body intact, and he worked gently to this effect. He cupped her bare toes, tilting them closer to the fire, and the motion jostled her awake. 

     For a moment she lay motionless, blinking slowly, dazed. Only her eyes poked out from the mountain of coats and blankets he’d piled on her, and they gazed upward, frozen on his face. For some time she stayed like that and didn’t move a muscle.

     Looking down, Daryl caught her eyes and again recognized the terror there - but also something else. Whether from the warmth of his body or the arms which didn't restrain but instead oddly cradled her, from inside the torrent of paralyzing shock he saw the smallest bit of relief there. Through her muddled thoughts she’d identified him as a safeguard. Closing her eyes again she continued to lay against him with her head tucked into his shoulder, curling her fingers tightly around the front of his heavy woolen shirt. He noticed her movement and clutched her closer without noticing.

***

     When she next opened her eyes it was dark all around and the fire snapped like a dragon in its cave. She felt warmth on her legs and feet, found him crouching close to her with a warm wash cloth soaping the grime off her feet.

     Without looking up at her face he mumbled gruffly, “Just started the job, darlin’, can already tell ya got half the Tongass forest stuck in yer feet.” 

     She gaped at him silently as he continued,” Gon’ clean ya up, don’t go hollerin’ like I’m goddamn killin’ ya again. Gon’ wake the whole damn neighborhood,” he said motioning to his sleeping dogs, knowing full well they were miles from any other living person.

     Resting back on her elbows she looked on as he sat cross-legged on the ground, her foot raised high in his hand as he set to work digging out pieces of bark with a metal tweezer, rinsing the dirt from her sores. He knew it stung, and he heard her sharp intake of breath now and again. It seemed that watching him had humanized her some; she looked a bit less like a cornered animal the more he tended to her. 

     “Don’t get too comfy there, aint doused these in vodka yet,” he warned, motioning towards her feet. To his relief she looked at him and slowly nodded her assent. Now they were gettin’ somewhere.

     Washing the grime from her feet he found a swollen ankle, likely sprained, two broken toes and an endless mess of sticks and thorns and pebbles lodged in her heavily callused feet. He looked up at her and found her with eyes closed, leaning back slightly with what he believed was a modicum relaxation. He wondered where she’d been that made this tedious process calming for her in comparison. He reluctantly tested just how comfortable she’d come to feel with him by dislodging a thorn from between her toes. He watched as she gasped, but all that followed was a wrinkle of her eyebrows, making no motion to pull her foot away.

     “Aint gon’ lie to ya, yer pretty banged up,” he said as he dripped vodka over her feet. She released an involuntary jerk that seemed to startle her into the reality of his description. The sores on her feet screamed a message loud and clear, that this was mild compared to the rest of her. 

     If she’d been able to put words to her thoughts, she’d have revealed her growing feeling of foreboding at finding the injuries which lay just beneath the blankets. She’d given up, then, weighed the horror of seeing her own wounds against that of letting a stranger mind them. She stuck her chin out slightly in what was to be her first words in longer than she could remember:” Fix it? I can’t, I can’t look.” She stammered in a voice so small it could have come from a child.

     Her admission stoked a rising flair of alarm as she began again to breath heavily. He hushed her soothingly, “S’okay, I gotcha” as he tenderly ran the wet cloth against her leg. He ascended no further until he heard her sniffling abate. Something about this situation plucked at his nerves in a way that made him feel surprisingly protective. He was once like her: alone, shaking, cut-up and hiding in the woods. No one had stumbled upon his hiding place and carried him off tucked inside their coat. He couldn’t have even contemplated that sort of luck. He felt compelled to help and comfort the girl he’d found as much as he had once needed the same for himself. He’d bet money that there wasn’t another person for miles who carried his kind of memories. If they did they’d be a recluse like him. It only goes one way.

     “Gon’ get the rest of ya cleaned up darlin’,” he mumbled and pulled a layer of blanket away. As he did so he could feel white hot terror writhing under her skin, but going unremarked on her face. Her resolve suddenly incited respect and admiration in him, as well as relief. At least she’d try to keep her yellin’ at bay so the dogs wouldn't howl.

     He peeled the rest of the blankets off and tossed them aside with his coat until she was left in her dirty shift and knotted, bloody rags. Dipping the cloth into the warm water he began again with her hand, careful not to aggravate any cuts or sores. She looked down and watched him, mesmerized by his tender ministrations. He wondered how long it had been since someone had let her bathe.

     “Got a name?” he ventured, but she said nothing in return and gave an expressionless and wide-eyed stare. Figuring she was still in shock, he let the matter rest. He knew well the feeling of falling dead silent without hope of ever coming to. _S'j_ _us' the way we protect ourselves - if ya body can’t withdraw from harm, ya mind will. Ya voice will._ “Aint much of a talker maself,” he offered, washing away the dirt and dried blood from her arms as best he could. He’d taken notice of her injuries as he went; splints were needed, bandages, and sutures. She sat still and let herself be washed; it was calming for both of them. He could see under the grime that she had long, delicate fingers. The rag revealed a long graceful neck, and it became easier to take in the details of her face. He figured she was around twenty or so.

     “Turn ‘round, lemme see yer back,” he said. She gave him a long look filled with tension and unease, but she had no fight left. “Aint gon’ make ya,” he mumbled. Upon hearing this she twisted her body around and pulled down the ratty straps of her dress. He washed down her back and cringed at the mess that’d been made of her skin. It was a patchwork of pain worse than he’d ever seen on another person. Their connection was sealed in that moment, and he had the rare and indescribable feeling that he would never let her out of his sight. This protective urge was tinged with violence, however; if anyone so much as looked at her sideways, he knew they’d all regret it. He figured she deserved a guard dog, and so she got one.

     “Hey,” he grunted at her. Turning around he pulled up his shirt and sat there. He knew she saw the deep, jagged scars across his back. He felt a finger graze the ridges of a particularly deep one and his mind sank somewhere black for a moment. Yanking his shirt down, caring little if he’d startled her, he looked into her face and saw recognition there. In much the same way he‘d previously appeared unmoved by her suffering, she reflected nothing in her gaze but understanding. She was never afforded the luxury of sympathy, and so she had none either.

     When Daryl woke up to go hunting that morning, he never would have thought it’d lead him to this moment - sinking deep into the hot waves of his memories with someone else. _I aint tha only one_  repeated over and over in his head.It was a profoundly healing moment he’d never thought possible. Apparently she felt it too because she turned to him and dropped the front of her dress, letting it pool on her lap. What he saw was a beautiful body marred by patterns of knots, scars and burns. What she revealed to him was not sexual in essence; she knew they were showing each other secret things, and she had the presence of mind to know she wanted to go all the way.

     She tried to stand, to remove the dress entirely, but faltered soon enough and he’d had to steady her. Without agitation and adrenaline to block the pain, she began to feel all the parts of her that were suffering.

     He helped her out of what was left of the dress and pulled it over her head. They stared at each other, eye to eye, and though he’d thought himself incapable, his eyes glossed over with the threat of tears. With watery eyes he stared at her until he could swallow it back. He washed the rest of her, reverently bathing the scars that covered her belly and chest. When he was done he could see she was crying silently. Not the sort of sobbing that came with hysterical alarm, but a silent mourning for whatever they’d lost.

     He stood up, dragged his sleeve across his face and tossed her dress to the side. “Let’s get you covered up before I start gettin’ handsy with ya.”As he wrapped a sheet around her, he could see red splotches blooming beneath her bandages.

     “You’re bleedin’ all over the damn place again,” he rasped harshly, dreading having to stitch her up. He sighed deeply.

     “Now listen here, this what’s gon’ happen - can't have ya fulla holes an gushin’ yer innards all o’er everythin’. Gotta clean ‘em up right,” sighing heavily again.

     “Aint got no pain meds neither, just a bottle a whiskey since ya can’t use the vodka. Yer gon’ have ta be tough about it. “ If it were possible to turn even more pale, she did then.

     Silence.

     “I aint askin’, I’m tellin’ ya - aint gon’ have ya sick an dyin’. Want ya to stick around if that’s okay with you,” he finished. Their time together had calmed her considerably because she didn’t fight him on it. She just nodded her head nervously and looked away.

     “Gotta trust me, okay? Aint gonna stitch yer ear to ya elbow er nothin’. Got a steady hand n’ done it ta maself plenty,” he said. She nodded again solemnly. Looking up at his face, she was close enough to raise a hand to brush a wisp of hair from his eyes, and so she did. She let her palm settle on his cheek, rubbing her thumb gently across it. He felt completely disarmed.

     “Thank you,” she said in a voice so low it could have been a whisper. He pulled her hand from his cheek and held it.

     “Ya only got three baddies- a real deep one on yer hip, back a yer left shoulder, yer thigh and thas it. Think ya can git away with bandaging the rest real tight. Checked ya already for broken bones; aside from your toes and that sprain, ya got none,” he said.

     As he retrieved all the medical supplies that had kept him going as long as he has, she began to fidget.

     “Aint nothin’ but a few stitches, I gotcha.” he whispered and, gathering her up, he pulled her onto his lap and sat on the bed with her head leaning against his shoulder. Dousing the wound on her leg with vodka, he winced at her jagged and torn skin. Cleaning it elicited no further response from the girl, until he looked down and realized she was biting hard on his shirt. As he began to close the wound she jerked and was gently caught, sliding his big hand tenderly over her leg. 

     “Gotta stay still for me,” he said. No more than a few seconds later she jerked again. This time he caught her calf between his knees and stiffened his grip, holding her in place as he worked, feeling his cock twitch without warning. _T_ _he hell?_ Refocusing himself, he could tell she was trying and he knew the feeling of getting sewn up without anything to kill the pain. For reasons he wasn't quite sure of, the more she struggled the more he wanted her to. Daryl did his best to push the thought from his mind.

     “Put ya arms around ma neck, got it? Don’t let go. If it hurts, ya squeeze me hard as ya can.” He whispered and felt the beginnings of a throbbing hard on pushing against his pants. He couldn't pinpoint what it was he found so erotic - was it the way she squirmed against him? Her whimpering and begging for relief? 

     Letting her head rest against him once again, she closed her eyes, intent on enduring it silently. Sliding his arm up her leg it felt as if he sought to comfort and hold her, but her next jerk found him locked around her, holding her in place. She gasped audibly and he felt horror wash over her anew. He hated every last minute of this...and he didn't want it to end. _Yer a sick fuck_  he chided himself. _Gettin' off on torturin' people._ He knew this was going to pull her mind back to a place where pain and immobility once ate her alive. He knew she’d go to that place and he couldn’t stop her - all he could do was eventually coax her back into the world again. He felt dizzy, hot, as if he didn't know himself.

     He shushed her continuously, the way you would a crying child and that alone brought him terrifyingly close to coming in his pants. He did his best to ignore it, pushing it out of his mind. _I need ta stop this._

     Kissing the sweaty forehead pressed into his neck, he turned his head so that he could whisper in her ear. Each time she jerked he held her tighter, confining her until he felt her panting. “I know it hurts baby, I know. S’almost over,” he whispered to her. She wondered if he was at all aware of his words in his attempts to soothe her. Before she managed to finish the thought she lost her tenuous grasp on composure and began shaking in earnest. 

     “Hey, hey, hey...” he soothed. She looked up at him then and he saw that he was on the brink of losing her to hysteria again. She had the eyes of a cornered animal again, but he didn’t want to stitch her poorly.

     “Don’t wanna be holdin’ ya down while I stitch ya, okay? Don’t fight me so hard” he whispered. _What a goddamn lie._

     “One down…” the he said as he cleaned and bandaged his handiwork. 

     “Other one is on yer shoulder, but I’ll give ya a second,” he said.

     He pulled her face up and saw that her eyes were blank. 

     He whispered to her softly, “Listen ta me - close your eyes. You can hide in there til’ it’s safe to come out, I’ll take care of everythin’ out here.” 

     At this moment in time he could barely recognize himself. There he sat, a shaking and frightened girl curled up on his lap as he was rocking her and kissing her forehead.

     He felt her sigh and when he saw her face her eyes were shut, he positioned her so that her shoulder and the jagged gash were easily within reach.“C’mere honey,” Daryl whispered as he lay her on her stomach, knowing the next few minutes were going to be gut wrenching. He was practically sweating with anticipation. With her eyes closed, to his surprise she nodded her head. He was glad she wasn’t so far gone that he couldn’t find her when he had to. As he positioned himself over her and began to rub her back, she knew he was going to hold her there. She knew he’d keep her from squirming and he knew she needed to try and wriggle away from the pain. 

    “M’sorry darlin’, s’gonna be over soon. Aint gonna take long,” he whispered. Once he started he felt her back tense as she buried her face in her arms. He heard her crying softly and rubbed her back. 

     “Easy baby, you're doin’ good…” he assured her until she involuntarily kicked her leg and felt him straddle them and hold her down. 

     He felt her shaking and panting again as he held her firmly. When she started pleading, his dick ached. 

     “Please stop, please” she whispered hoarsely. He felt a surge in his dick even worse than before.  _Christ._

     “I know baby, I know. Breathe for me, s’almost over. You’re alright, I gotcha. S'gonna stop hurtin' real soon,” trying his best to sooth her.

     “Jus’ lemme move, I don’t want ya to hold me down no more,” she whimpered softly.  _I'll do what I want with you._

     “I know it hurts, sweetheart. Gon’ finish quick, only one left “ he cooed, bandaging the second gash. He let up off her then, rolling her to her side.

     “Can you hang in there for me, darlin’? he said as he swept the hair off her perspiring and tearful face. “Tell me ya can - “

     “Don’t hold me so hard,” she sobbed in response.  _Fuck, say that again, but slower this time..._

     “Ya think I want to? Yer jumpin’ like a fish outta water,” he said, his voice rough with exhaustion.

     “Lemme try,” she pleaded.

     “Alright, do yer best, don’t really wanna sit on ya. Not while I’m sewin’ ya up anyway,” he muttered reflectively. 

     Pouring the last of the alcohol over her hip, he pulled her onto his lap where she lay partially curled, pale from head to toe.

     “S’alright, be good as new soon,” he said leaning over into her hair. “Put yer arms around ma leg, remember what I tol’ ya before. It hurts ya squeeze me,” he said, making sure she held on to him tight. He steadied himself and thought on how he was going to keep her still from this angle. The skin at the tender part of her hip was a mess and he doubted she’d be able to keep from thrashing. 

     Taking a deep breath he set to work. To his utter astonishment she lay stock-still over his legs like her body was made of lead. 

     “Y’all right over there?” he asked with concern in his voice, pushing away the hair that had again fallen over her face. What he saw there made him work faster than he knew he should. Her face was simply crumpled, trying her best not to move and drowning in her own tears

     As he tied off the last stitch and covered the wound they both let out a sigh of relief. The only noise left in the room was the crackling of the fire and her tiny voice crying softly. 

     “You're alright, s’all done,” he said, gently stroking her hair. He let her cry out her agony into his lap until she stilled, her face hidden beneath her hair. 

     He finally collapsed on his back, sliding his arm under her head and draping his other arm protectively over her body. He planned on finding out exactly who had done this to her. He’d hunt them like rotten animals, track them down, and let her cut as many holes into them as she could stand. Such were his final thoughts as he drifted into a troubled but restorative sleep, a wet patch of precome smeared across the inside of his jeans.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bring me my smut, Jeeves. Chop chop.

     She woke to a crisp wind cooling her face, and with it a familiar feeling she couldn’t describe. _The cold always reminds me of something I lost. Whenever I feel it on my face I try to remember, but I can’t imagine where to look. Only that the cold is where it starts._

     The cabin was empty. Her eyes opened slowly, having been sealed shut by their own dried goo. The house was big enough, but she could confirm with one sweeping glance that she was alone. She listened carefully for footsteps but heard nothing. _Alright then._ She tried to sit up, but made it as far as leaning back on her elbows. Too many pieces of her screamed in agony and she was too hungry, too pained to endure it just yet. Laying back again, she covered herself in fur blankets from the hides of various animals. Her feet were bandaged and sheathed nearly to the knee in oversized woolen socks. She was clean - not as clean as she could be, but clean enough. She smelled wood and pine, fresh air and her own sweat. The house was surprisingly cozy, with all the amenities you’d expect of such a set-up. She wanted to see more, wondering if there was a well nearby with water, but her efforts to climb to her feet were ill-fated. 

     She could hear footsteps in the snow coming closer to the door and had little recourse but to lay still and wait. Daryl walked into the house and brought with him what she now counted as five dogs. She watched him lean his crossbow against the wall and set aside the dead squirrels tied to his belt and the rabbit slung over his shoulder.

     “Yer up then,” he grunted.

     She answered this statement with nothing but a silent nod. 

     “Huntin’ trips ain't gonna cut it no more,” he went on. “Be nice to have some bread.” She wondered if that was his way of asking her to earn her keep by working in the kitchen.

     He walked over to her cautiously, sitting by her on the bed. 

     “Sure yer starvin’, in need of washin’ and clean clothes. Gotta keep your bandages dry, so we’ll have to work around it,” he trailed off, taking in the look on her face. It was blank. Unreadable. Neither grateful or frightened. 

     “Got some col’ meat, coffee, and fruit. How ‘bout ya dress yerself and I’ll go on and make ya a plate,” he mumbled rather than stated, removing a pair of thermal long-johns and a white wool sweater from a heavy wooden chest. The sweater was clearly handmade and old as dirt. Funny how the worn cloth made the stitching appear somewhat elegant.

     He turned his back and left her to it, pouring some black coffee into a chipped mug without a handle and filling a glass dish in similar shape with everything he’d promised and a small wedge of cheese he’d forgotten he had. As he walked towards her with the food, he found her struggling to lift herself enough to maneuver her arms into the sleeves. She hadn’t even gotten to the pants yet.

     Coming closer to the bed he set her meal on a small wooden table and hesitantly approached her. She was writhing naked and clearly in pain, trying her damnedest to shove herself into his sweater.

     “Darlin’…,” he muttered. “C’mere, stop that, you’ll tear yer stitches.” She let herself fall back to the bed in frustration, blowing a strand of hair out of her eyes. Daryl gingerly pulled the sleeves up her arms, mindful of the bandages he’d wrapped around her hands. She poked her head through the hole and he helped her sit up just enough to pull it in place. He did the same with her pants, though she had considerable trouble lifting herself off the bed. Daryl frowned deeply and began prodding her ribs until he hit one spot then another that squeezed yelps out of her that nearly made him deaf. 

     “Busted yer ribs, or sumthin’ did,” he informed her. He quickly shook off the thought that perhaps he’d held her too tight last night, but felt guilty none-the-less. “Gon’ be a long month, need time enough ta mend.” He mounted as many blankets behind her as it took to keep her elevated enough to eat, then returned to her with the plate.As soon as he got to the bed the girl’s eyes zeroed in on the tray and she all but attacked it between gulps of the water he’d brought over in a small tin cup. “Easy, easy - ya gonna be sick. Slow down,” he said as he took the cup before she could lean in for another big gulp. “Slow goddamn it - “ She noted the slightly playful tone in his voice and did as he asked, pacing herself while he pushed the hair away from her face and felt her head for signs of fever. When the plate was more than half empty he took it from her and set it aside.

     “Gon’ wait a few minutes, ya will. Drink yer coffee n’ drink it slow,” he said as he handed her the cup. The heat from the glass warmed her fingers and the liquid left a trail of delicious heat in her throat that she could feel all the way to her belly. It smelled bitter and delicious and for a moment she forgot everything around her, sighing contentedly. He watched her face as she did so, knowing it was rude to stare, but kept on until she opened her eyes again. His behavior struck her as motherly, affectionately forceful; but also awkward and jumpy, as if he didn’t know how to dole out his concern without overpowering her.

     “Gon’ tell me yer name yet, or I gotta make one up,” he asked.

     After a long stretch of silence, her voice cracked, pained and a bit hoarse,” Make one up.”

     “Fine then, suit yerself. What kinda animal ya like?” he asked.

     “I like birds, bears and foxes as well,” she answered. 

     “Well ya aint no bird, I’ll tell ya that. You’d need a pinched nose like a beak. Bears’re violent, frightnin’ things, and ye aint that neither. Did find ya hidin’ in a foxhole, though, so maybe fox’ll do,” and that was that. “Name’s Daryl, case yer wonderin’. Know ya won’ ask cuz ya aint said but ten words since ya started talkin’.”

     “I feel quiet,” she she said after some time.

     “Thas more than alright by me,” he said, concluding their conversation.

     Handing the plate back to her, he gave her a look she easily read as “slow yourself, like I told ya” as if he’d said it aloud. 

     “When yer done I’ll do what I can ta wash yer hair before it turns into a bird’s nest. Don’ want no birds in 'ere,” he grunted, and with that he left, taking a bar of soap and a bucket of steaming water he’d put on the fire out to the yard. She could see the tub he meant to bathe in from where she laid, and she wondered if he knew, or knew and didn’t care. Likely he wasn’t used to guests and hadn’t ever had to think about it.

     She watched him, tilting her head to the side curiously like an owl, while he peeled off his clothes in the cold. Steam radiated from his body each time he rinsed himself, and she found herself transfixed. She looked at him as if he were an exotic creature that she could watch endlessly and with infinite attentiveness. She could tell he cut his choppy dark hair himself, likely with the same razor he used on his face. The slight, graying beard covering his chin was kept somewhat trim. She was captivated by the sight of him and was eager to take a closer look and smell with time to examine him. She had no word for it but fascination.

     She didn’t feel afraid of him or threatened or overwhelmed - he fit comfortably in her mind as a twin brother, or a childhood friend or a caretaker. He simply just _was_. And as he was so she would be, and there really wasn’t anything more to say about it. 

     He came back to the cabin with an empty bucket and clothes that clung to his wet skin. He went out to refill the bucket and soon returned it to the fire, she assumed to be used on her eventually. He stood there staring off, lost in thought as he absent-mindedly tugged at the knots in his hair. 

     “Daryl,” she called in a low voice, startling him out of his reverie. He liked his name on her lips, which struck him as odd. Nodding her head towards the bed, she beckoned him to sit and asked for a comb. Close enough for her to reach him, he sat patiently as she detangled his hair, combing it out. Taking the towel from his hands, she did her best to dry it before motioning towards the fire. “Dry it before you tend to me. Can’t have us both bedridden and useless, we’ll likely starve to death.” At that he turned to face her and what he saw surprised him - the look in her eye said she’d given him an order, a decent one, and she expected he heed her without question just as she had done. He realized how very much she looked like his mother, tired and angelic, and that thought left him without a defiant bone in his body. 

     “Yes ma’am,” he mumbled and did as she bade him without a sound.

 

***

 

     She didn’t yet know what to make of him. Watching him sit by the fire, he struck her as a supremely solitary creature. He moved in a way which was essentially noiseless, as if he were accustomed to being in a room without ever being noticed. He seemed…motherless. If that were either valid or appropriate for a grown man to be. She could usually tell what men desired with a quick look in their eye, whether it was control or comfort, power or lust. But she couldn’t readily tell what he wanted from the world in which he moved so quietly. Inasmuch as she could tell having known the man for a day, she surmised that he either disciplined himself never to want or didn’t know that it was something he could do. It was this type of creature, though scarce in nature, that should be feared the most, she thought. Men like him were strangers to themselves and too often they were the last to know how to maneuver disappointment, impatience or need.

     To make matters worse the man was built like a brick wall with shoulders so wide it could seem almost disproportionate to the rest of his body at the wrong angle. He was heavily scarred, more than she’d originally noted from her brief view on the night he found her. Knotted, pale areas of skin snaked across his muscles and stopped at his shoulders without marring his neck or face. In the afternoon light she could see his face clearly and was surprised to note that it was easy on the eyes - even empirically handsome maybe. There were things that the angles of his face shouted loudly: anger, quietude, a childish fear of being abandoned, turmoil, deep sadness and a primal elegance so graceful it hurt to look at him. Or maybe it simply hurt _her_ to look at him. You couldn’t possess a person like that, he would never allow it, and that alone would sharpen anyone’s desire for him. When his face relaxed, even for a moment, she could see him as a young boy underneath all that age and worry - like she was looking into the past through a crystal ball.

     These thoughts rolled around restlessly inside her - some recognizable, and others she lacked the experience to understand. She was not someone who was used to being touched gently, or spoken to softly. She had no understanding of trust or safety, no frame of reference for stability or hope. She operated almost entirely on instinct, assessing the danger in her environment and the intentions of her company so well and so often she couldn’t stop. This made it hard to know herself, hard to know what she wanted, because she was forever anticipating the danger ahead. She barely slept. That was another thing she understood precious little of: sleep. She had never felt safe so she never learned how. She knew exhaustion fairly well. But sleep was a stranger.

     The two of them, sitting silently and at different sides of the room, were like caged animals or feral children, each in their own right. Their shared experiences with danger and fear caused them to mirror each other without knowing it, and they were comforted as a result. She was shaken back to reality by the sound of his voice as he stood beside her. Stealthy as a fox, she hadn’t even noticed him move.

     “Water’s hot, got a makeshift tub out there,” he mumbled, suddenly lifting her from the bed and carrying her to a wooden porch outside. He deposited her body gently into what looked like a large tin bucket, oval shaped and perfect for a small body. 

     “Why doncha do what ya can, lemme know what ya need, and I’ll rinse ya off when yer ready…” he explained while offering a bar of soap and a rag. Before he finished his sentence he could see her struggling to pull the sweater in any direction. 

     “Alright, alright, don’ go tearin’ ya stitches, how many times I gotta say it. Wasn’t no fun puttin’ em there, rather not do it again,” he said, and was serious, though he felt his cock twitch at the notion. He silently resigned himself to helping her undress. Certainly this was no hardship for him - he’d rather stare at her wet and naked than do most anything else - but for a man such as he, so alien to human contact, it unnerved him to be so aroused. He’d gone into town when he needed things, or rather when he needed to steal or sell what he’d previously stolen. He was no novice with women - there were plenty of whores in these run-down little towns, especially in ones with such an obvious meth habit.He wouldn’t go so far as to classify his interest in whores as arousal, no more than you would say week old meat was a satisfying meal. It _was_ indeed a meal, in a very concrete sense, but it did little by way of providing satisfaction. Just made the urges hurt less.

     When it was clear to both of them that she wouldn’t get very far washing herself, he did his best. Pouring a good amount of hot water he’d tempered to an acceptable degree, he watched her eyes close as she slid down a bit, clearly enjoying the relaxing effects of her bath. She might have also been distancing her mind from her exposed, naked body out of habit; it’d been so deeply ingrained relentlessly in her mind how much easier it was to endure a thing if you simply set your mind somewhere far and waited it out. Don’t cause a fuss, don’t speak out on your own behalf, but _give_ as much as is needed until the trouble passes. She had a talent for it by now. Didn’t even realize she was doing it half the time. It had become like a muscle - to endure suffering the way she knew how took practice. She did it ’til it felt real. ’Til she lost herself in it.

     She was genuinely relaxed in this bath, however. It was a moment she’d have liked to hold on to, but she knew well that happiness was a comforting myth like any other. The moment she felt the beginning of happiness, it was already gone. She knew better than to try and capture or savor it. The richness in the need for it arose from her inability possess it, just like the man who washed her.

     Daryl took his time. He’d sudsed her hair and poured fresh water over her to carry away all the grime. He ran the soapy rag gently over her beaten feet, up her calves and behind her knees. He’d washed every part of her he could find - with a few exceptions. He figured he’d save that for last, so if she swatted him away angrily, at least the job of bathing her was already done.

     He washed under her arms and took a chance, dragging the rag between her small breasts and up to her neck. Watching her face for movement, he saw none. This only emboldened him to move the rag further down, grazing beneath one of her breasts. Had she not winced at the pain in her ribs he’d have lost himself for sure. Feeling ashamed at the pain he’d caused her while trying to touch what wasn’t his, he gently poured what was left of the water over her shoulders and lifted her out of the tub. Before she knew it she’d been left cold and wet in front of the fire, covered in a towel. 

     Opening her eyes she heard him dumping out her bathwater and cleaning what was left. He surprised her by walking briskly through the house as if he’d suddenly been reminded of a pressing matter that needed immediate attention. Dressing quickly and grabbing his gun, she heard him mumble on his way out, “goin’ huntin’, takin’ the dogs.” With that he was gone. She didn’t even have time to remark that he’d just gone hunting this morning.

 

***

 

     Hours passed and the fire was low as Fox managed to get herself to bed. She began shivering as the embers died and had little choice but to curl up under the blankets for warmth. She heard the front door open, listening as he spoke to his dogs and fed them. Stoking a small fire once more, he sat still and stared into it while his animals ate until they were sated. He pulled his old chair close to the heat, smoking and taking swigs from a bottle of whiskey. The dogs eventually curled at his feet and slept, leaving him to drink slowly until there was nothing left. He smoked until his throat was raw, before finally stumbling unevenly toward the bed. _Jus’ gon’ lay. Jus’ gon’ sleep, be out ‘fore I know it, all that cheap whiskey…_

     He willed himself to forget she was there, but his pulsing, angry hard-on had other ideas. There was plenty of room in his bed for their two bodies to lay without touching, leaving him without any excuse to press his body against hers under the fur. If he wasn’t so conflicted he’d have enjoyed how sweet it felt to hide from the cold, crisp air inside the warm cocoon of his blankets. He turned himself finally to gaze at her in the dark. He didn’t understand his own suddenly scrupulous concerns; he wasn’t a decent man. He knew this and generally felt no remorse. It was simply who he was, or who he grew to be, maybe. Having soothed his mind with that glaring truth, he lifted his hand, caressing her cheek with his thumb slowly. He marveled at how soft and lovely she was, how much like fresh cream her they appeared, almost rosy. Lifting himself onto one elbow, he dragged his finger down her neck in a manner he found excruciating. When he hit the edge of the blanket he pulled it back, revealing her naked skin to the waist. Trailing his hand lower he was careful not to rouse her. He was engulfed in her scent and had no interest in explaining his drunken and lascivious behavior to her or anyone. He tormented himself by touching her agonizingly slow as he dragged the side of his finger down to her breast and traced a circle around her nipple. They too were soft and rosy, puckered by the cold air on her exposed skin. Dragging his finger to the underside of her breast, hoping hard it wouldn’t disturb her, he nudged it towards his lowering head, taking her nipple into his hot, wet mouth. He did so gently, but also helplessly, swirling his tongue and lightly suckling until he felt a crick in his neck and had to stop. As he pulled his mouth from her he thought he caught a slight intake of her breath - could he have imagined it? She could merely have been moving around in her sleep. He liked to think he was bringing pleasure to her in her dreams, and he lay back for a moment to stare longingly at her wet breast. 

     Watching her face he reached out to her other nipple and circled it with his thumb, squeezing it a bit. Putting his ear to her chest he could hear the violent pounding of her heart - he certainly wasn’t imagining that. Seeking confirmation, he tugged the slightest bit with his fingers on one nipple as he laved the other one with his tongue, pulling at it with his lips until he heard her gasping again. It was all the consent he needed.

     The tip of his tongue traveled down her neck as he tasted everything he could with sultry, open mouthed kisses. He wondered how long it had been since anyone bothered to give her pleasure. _Poor girl's starved for it._  When he returned to her breast and took most of it in his mouth he heard another heavy pant as she writhed a bit, her head turning, eyes still closed. He had the obscene feeling that he could do what he liked as long as her eyes stayed shut and they both pretended she was asleep. How loud could he make her moan by tugging and laving her like this? What would happen if he just kept going? She was seemingly his to play with and he could do as he liked.

     He let himself go and licked and nipped and pinched and tugged at her nipples one at a time, then both at once, rubbing himself against her breasts and moving their taut peaks across his lips as he moaned. He could hear her pants coming quickly now, watched as beads of sweat dripped from her forehead, disappearing in her hair. He felt her heart hammering wildly against his cheek. Careful to steer clear of her ribs, he propped his head against his pillows and lay against her comfortably, holding her breast to his mouth and suckling at her continuously without having to let go. He found this profoundly relaxing. As he reached his hand across her chest once more to capture her other nipple her breathing grew feverish. He was on to something and it only made him suck harder, draw it more deeply into his mouth, roll it between his fingers more purposefully, until she arched herself, emitting a pained whimpered. Panting slightly himself, he drew her nipple deep into his mouth and flicked his tongue against it rapidly. He stroked and tongued her until she unmistakably shuddered against his mouth in a convulsive orgasm. He only slowed when she went limp and grew quiet, nursing her through her aftershocks. He reluctantly pulled her nipple from his mouth with a final pop that made her body jerk.

     Looking down at her face glistening with sweat, he leaned down and touched his lips to her ear,” _Know yer awake_ ,” he whispered, “ _s’okay if ya don’t wanna say so, but I’mma make ya come a hundred more times if ya don't stop me_.” He kissed her forehead and then her cheek waiting for a sign. She lay still, damned near prettiest thing he’d ever seen. Still and quiet.

     His fingers trekked down her body until he felt a soft patch of hair. He wished he could press his nose into it and breathe deep, but it wasn’t time for that yet. If he was being honest, he wished sincerely that everything in the free world smelled like pussy.

     Settling his head in the crook of her neck, he whispered to her, occasionally licking her ear to punctuate his intentions, “ _Can’t wait ta give ya ma cock, when yer all better andya can wrap yer legs round ma waist while I fuck ya_.”

     “ _Gon' make ya scream so loud, they’ll hear ya in Russia. Not gonna yet, don’ wanna hurt ya_ …” he continued. “ _Tell ya what I'm gon' do though. I’m gon' make ya come so hard on ma hand yer gon' wish it was ma cock_.” He was also entirely unsure as to whether or not she’d had sex before, not to mention that he’d much prefer she be fully conscious for it.

     Tentatively pressing his finger between her lips he groaned against her, feeling how unbelievably wet she was.

     “ _That just for me_?” he said teasingly as he glided his finger up and down the length of her cunt easily. He began pressing circles around her little clit until he could feel a slight trembling in her legs. Dropping his head once again, he took her nipple in his mouth and playfully tugged it upwards until she moaned. He let it go and watched her breast bounce back into place in a way he found utterly gorgeous.

     Reaching lower, he started gingerly grazing her hole, bringing his finger back up to her clit with smooth swipes. 

     “ _Gon' fuck ya with ma hand, gon’ be real gentle bout it though_ …” he said and felt her stiffen the slightest bit, which turned him on even more. Her nervousness, or even her reticence, just made him want to fuck her on his hand even harder and he assumed that was human biology for you. He supposed his role was to lure and cajole, while hers was to resist. That primal game made an animal out of him more than he’d like to admit. Made him feel overcome with the need to conquer her, make her smell like him, mark her everywhere and claim her in every way he could imagine. 

     He imagined her trembling inside, frightened at what he might do - and what he would do was make her lose control and ruin her with pleasure. He pushed his middle finger inside of her slowly and remarked at how tight she felt around him. Fantasies of turning her on her belly, relentlessly pounding himself into her as he pushed her shoulders down into the bed flashed across his mind. He thought about coating her insides with his come, filling her up until she could no longer hold it in and he had to stop and catch his breath. He knew these were deplorable things to inflict on a girl in her condition, so he wouldn’t even consider it for the time being. That did nothing to stop the onslaught of images that slithered through his mind, leaving a trail of his come in its wake. 

     He pushed into her patiently, despite the aggressive scenes playing out in his mind. Once he was buried up to his knuckle in her pussy he stopped, listening to her rapid breathing. 

     “ _Don’t be scared, alright? Gon’ go slow. Never had nothin' inside ya I bet. Jus' r_ _elax_ ,” He watched her bite her bottom lip as he curved his finger and rubbed the small patch of nerves she likely didn’t even know she had.

     “That’s right, I know you like that…” he took a quick lick at her nipple while he slowly massaged the inner walls of her pussy. She moaned audibly as he fucked her slow and deep while sweetly kissing her neck. 

     “ _There ya go, feel good right_?” He moved to sit on his heels without ceasing the pressure of his fingers, so he could employ the use of both his hands comfortably while looking down at her . Sliding the thumb of his other hand in slow circles over her clit, she had a slightly pained and desperate look on her face as she finally opened her eyes. 

     “ _Ya bein’ real good fer me. Think ya can take 'nother finger_?” he said in a low, gravelly tone as he held her gaze.

     “ _Don’ be scared_ ,” he whispered, “ _I got ya_.” Without waiting for an answer he slowly slid another finger into her and marveled at how tightly her cunt held him.

     “ _Yer such a good girl, lettin' me fuck ya little pussy like this. Betcha nervous, huh?_ ” As he curled both fingers and buried them deep inside her, he watched the look of apprehension on her face become engulfed by the pleasure he was pumping into her. He quickened his movements and listened with satisfaction at the wet sounds his fingers were making, a tell-tale sign that she was getting closer.

     She was whimpering now, like a lost puppy. He moved his thumb away from her clit and pressed against her abdomen with the palm of his hand, pushing it down to meet the finger moving inside her pussy. He could feel how close she was and knew that if he slowed it all down she’d come that much harder.

     “ _G_ _on' go real deep now. Jus' relax an breathe easy._ ” He pushed his two fingers into her so deep he couldn’t push any further, massaging her g-spot smoothly in tandem with the pressure above her pubic bone. 

     “ _Yer gon' come hard fer me sweetheart, 'kay?_ ” he whispered as her legs started shaking. 

     “ _Gotta…gotta use the washroom. Gotta stop so I can go…_ ” she stuttered, looking up at him helplessly.

     “ _Shhhhh, jus' means yer ready ta come. Jus' relax fer me an’ let it happen…_ ” he said soothingly. 

     “ _Yer right there…be a good girl an come for me, okay? There ya go…_ ” he whispered as he felt the first splash of her come hit his hand.

     “ _Thas a good girl, comin' all o'er ma hand while I’m fuckin’ ya. Such a good girl, jus' a little more…_ ” She could barely hear him through her tortured whining as she felt her body release something it’d been holding on to for dear life and gush all over the hand that fucked her steadily without stopping.

     Removing his hand from her pussy he pushed his two fingers into his mouth and licked every last bit of her come off them. He couldn’t help but look at her pridefully, left trembling and disoriented by the magnitude of her orgasm. He dropped down next to her on the bed, cock still throbbing, suddenly exhausted. He listened intently to the last tortured melody of her little whimpers and slid his arm under her neck to hold her against him. He wouldn’t dare touch himself now. He wished it was because he didn’t want to push her further, but his intentions were selfish - he’d wait until he wanted her so bad that it hurt him. Until he couldn’t wait a minute longer. Until it was built up inside him and made him come like a tidal wave all over her.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Saturday, ladies :) Kindly disregard any careless grammatical errors or confusing syntax. I'm not the editing nazi I used to be. Really hope you enjoy it.

     Fox was caught in a nightmare, like sweaty, frightened game snared in a bloody trap. Inside her dreamscape was a somber blue moon hanging at the apex of a night sky. Knuckle white and elegant, it was shining on the face of an ominous, colossal tree. She was poised, frozen in place and pale as a marble statue, petrified and barefoot in the tall dead grass. Only a cold, nebulous fog moved, choking the air with its misty tendrils. Behind her stood Daryl’s house, too far away and unreachable. Its windows were lit warmly from within, flickering like candles hidden in the dark. As she looked on it wistfully,the moon turned a darker shade of blue in her despair, reflecting Fox's mood in a dreamy synesthesia. 

     A violent sound of rabid dogs barking and snarling clapped against her ears, omnipresent and shocking like thunder, but no dogs could be found. _Even the moon wishes she could hide her face from this. I can feel her trying,_  she thought sadly.Stiff and white as bone with fear, Fox watched as a frenzy of black birds flew out in a deranged cloud from their perch on the branches of her nightmare tree. They swarmed and convulsed like summer flies, fighting each other for space or air. Fox stood, rooted there, looking over her shoulder and longing for the house behind her, watching as its light glittered in the windows. 

     The scenery around her began spinning fast in a whirlwind, while only the moon and tree stood still. The moon looked stark and wild among the moving stars,shrieking in a voice that could break glass. It was then that the tree spoke out to her in a bloodless drone: _I know what you fear. I know it with my scaly branches and my ageless roots. You’re no better than a ghost haunting that house behind you. You're eyeless and wandering, searching for something you'll never find. I see you clawing and crying after the warmth you’ve found there. I will drag you from that place, pulling your love under my hooves like a black horse, stomping it into the ground you walk on._

     A bellowing wind echoed the screeching moon with a sound too loud to be real. It scathed her eardrums until Fox let out a cry of her own, lending her voice to the dissonant chorus: _Let me go. Let me go. Let me go._ The cry flew out of her throat like a frightened bird, sailing on the tumultuous wind as the cacophony around her reached a crescendo. The storm of noise around her slowly dulled to a snaky hiss. Fox was left to stare dimly at Daryl’s house amid the calming maelstrom. She watched the lights in his windows go out, mumbling _I’m right here. I’m right here…_

 

***

 

     She woke with a gasp, sucking cold air into her lungs, eyes wide and desperate. She was freed from her nightmare, from the tree and moon holding her hostage in her dreams. As her hammering heart slowed, she thought of how traitorous her body could be, letting dark dreams like that sleep inside her without warning, twisting malignantly and waiting for her to rest. _How cruel,_  she thought.It was over for now. Like most things she understood but couldn’t cope with, she tucked its memory deep into the recesses of her mind until, in the stark light of day, it no longer existed.

     She found herself naked and alone. She knew her memories of Daryl couldn’t have been a dream - his hands snaking between her legs, slithering inside her, conjuring all kinds of indescribable urges… But these feelings too unsettled her and she couldn’t quite comprehend them. With the bat of an eye she made those memories of him disappear as well, until there was nothing left for her mind to torment her with.

     Glancing through a window she found the sun beaming like a white hot giant lighting the sky. It was scathingly bright and seemed to scorch the world colorless, as the sky blended with the snow. It was as if everything around her had been shocked by some terrible goings-on in the night and was a blanched white, like arsenic.

     She peered around, free to take in her surroundings unattended and with only her aching body to distract her. Clutching the fur to her naked chest, she sat up as the intricacies of the room became more apparent. The place had nooks and corners she itched to discover, in the same way the sight of Daryl's body had overwhelmed her when she’d spied on him bathing. The same bottomless curiosity gnawed inside her like hunger, feeling nearly insatiable. She felt the headboard behind her was made from sturdy Aspen trees- two trunks stood at each corner of the bed while smaller branches stretched between them. The thing was practically unmovable and somewhat ingeniously made. Nailed to a branch was a folded piece of aged and yellowed newspaper, an obituary, she was afraid to dislodge and unfold. Another time. 

     He maintained spartan lodgings; beside her stood a simple wood table and candle lamp; at her feet, a red oak trunk. Beyond the parameters of the bed was a stacked stone fireplace closely surrounded by a threadbare armchair she suspected may have been covered in a rich forest green before it was overcome by age and tearing; next to it, an old and splintering rocking chair. She envisioned him sitting there alone, smoking and staring into the fire, toes curled into a thick rug that, in the light of day, she could now identify as coyote skin. 

     A black wood stove and a rickety table fitting only two chairs completed the one room cabin. She wondered how long this house has been standing strong and unaffected in the middle of nowhere. Long enough to have never seen electricity or indoor plumbing.

     Wrapping the fur tightly around her, she hobbled out of bed, leaning on bits of furniture to help her make it towards the yard

. The thought of pressing her bandaged feet to the cold, hard ground outside and dragging herself to the outhouse made her cringe inside her still aching skin. She’d nearly frozen to death only a day ago, and her body was begging her for mercy before she even opened the door. 

     She stopped in her tracks to eye a dark figure not twenty feet ahead, hunched over as though it were in pain. _Daryl._ She looked at him from afar and noticed he wore only long johns and a hat as he arched awkwardly over the ground. His back was wide and bulged slightly with thick ropes of muscle covered in milky white skin. She could see a smattering of beauty marks sparsely freckled across him like stars on a cloudy night. She thought she’d call out to him, but the idea of a noise, either loud or barely audible, was too much for her to muster. If there’s anything she yearned to avoid it was the sound of her own voice. If she could just be quiet for a while, for a long while, maybe she could wrap that silence around her like a blanket and let it protect her from the world.

     Daryl emitted a pained groan and she froze. She was already sinking into herself, wondering what to do in case something were really wrong with him. She resolved to stay inside if that were the case, let him nurse himself in the yard. She was determined to make no move to help him - that sort of thing just wasn’t in her. Her instinct toward self preservation had the power to leave her cold and without feeling. It  comforted her, like slipping into a warm bath filled to the brim with nothingness and maybe her own strangled sighs. If he was hurt she'd leave him and live in his house alone.

     He turned then, tucking himself back into his pants. _Oh._ She wished she’d seen it. Wish she’d seen him do it. The thought brought a kind of fierce clenching and burning to her cunt. If it had a voice it'd sound like a stray cat crying out in the night or a hungry baby.

     She began backing away from the scene, using the wall for leverage, while her nerves sang a pained hymn of agony throughout her body. He opened the back door and stood there glistening slightly under a sheen of sweat, nearly glittering in the new light of morning. He found her leaning over the bed, having gotten within a foot of it before falling and catching herself on the edge of the mattress. The fur she’d wrapped around herself pooled at her feet, a puddle of wolf skin. She could hear him gasping slightly, his intake of breath audible enough to set her cheeks and chest alight with the pink flush of embarrassment. A small voice inside her cried in panic, rapt with wonder at whether he’d seen her stare at his back while he touched himself. She certainly hadn’t turned away until it was almost too late.

     “Jesus, darlin’, whatcha got yerself into already? Too early ta be fallin' all o'er the damn place,” he said playfully. She heard a pleasant tone in his voice, and it gave no indication that he’d caught her playing the spy during a moment he certainly hadn’t mean to share. 

     She looked over her shoulder, naked as the day she was born, bent over the bed, and found him grinning. His eyes were childlike and clear as a cloudless blue sky. Snaking an arm around her waist he steadied her as he leaned his head down and softly placed and a deliciously prolonged kiss on the cheek of her ass. It wasn’t so much an invitation to continue what he’d started the night before, but more an act of bold sincerity.

     Daryl swung around then and scooped her into his arms as if she weighed no more than a bag of rice. 

     “Outhouse, darlin’?” his inquiry was met with a fierce nod that broke his face into another childish grin. As if even this private moment were something he’d held on to for a lifetime, waiting patiently to share it with her.

 

***

 

     “Ma girl want 'nother hot bath? Be good fer ya muscles, ease ‘em a bit,” he shouted to her from just beyond the outhouse. Did he expect her to respond? She sat silent wishing for some sort of a guarantee that he wasn’t right outside listening for an answer. 

     Opening the door some time later, she leaned against it on a patch of dirt watching him roughhouse with no less than all five of his dogs. If she had to guess she’d say they were a wolf or coyote mix. As she watched she couldn’t tell whether he seemed slightly more animalistic or they slightly more human. They wrestled and growled and bit like six grown boys horsing around in the dirt after class, looking as close to happy as she imagined was possible for anyone.

     Spotting her finally, he walked over to where she stood, scooping her up again and carrying her to the tub. He was surprisingly animated as he went to retrieve a bucket of water that by now had just about warmed and tugged off her blanket. He kneeled down, pouring in the water, splashing her playfully as he ran a rag over her legs. They were both content to sit  in the cool air, her leg stretched over the rim of the tub as he cradled her foot in his hand and examined her cuts. 

     “Gon’ fix up this ankle so ya can walk round when I aint here,” he grunted, pressing a quick kiss to the bottom of her foot.  With that he stood up and carried her back inside wrapped in a towel. He set about binding her ankle and toes, each in a firm fabric, pinning the edges closed.

     “Keep it tight, you’ll be up in no time,” he said, sounding distracted. Before she could process his actions he’d crawled up to her side and, covering her cheek with his large, warm hand, placed a tentative kiss on her lips. She froze suddenly and lay still with eyes that were motionless and stared downward as he grazed the pad of his thumb over her cheek and down to her chin, studying the shape of her face. 

     Taking the tip of her chin between two fingers he leaned in once more, but this time she moved back, turning her face away from his. 

     “I do somethin’ ya don’t like?” he asked coldly. She shook her head slowly, eyes glued to her fidgeting hands.

     He tried once more, this time starting at her neck and leaving a trail of wet kisses up to her cheek. Before he moved any further she pushed on his shoulder, whispering,  _don't._

     They laid silently and she could feel him turning the details of her rejection over in his mind. She could sense the frustration, confusion, disappointment and unease radiating from his body in warm waves that made her want to squirm with discomfort.

     He abruptly rose, put his boots on quickly, grabbed his crossbow and was out the door with a small herd of dogs following faithfully at his heel. She jumped slightly when the door slammed shut, but couldn’t help but breathe a sign of relief after he’d gone.

 

***

 

     Daryl finally sauntered back into the house hours after dark, reeking of whiskey and carrying a detached air about him as if he were skirted by gray clouds. She could only imagine the thoughts he’d had, the conclusions he’d come to, the judgements he’d made, resolving to do one thing about it and then another. Walking unevenly to his armchair without even surveying the room for the girl he carelessly named Fox, he fell into his seat clutching a recently opened flask. The bottle was clearly not his first, perhaps not even his second. Curtains of white cigarette smoke  hung lazily about his face, dissipating in just enough time for him to exhale another thick stream. His black mood showed in his face and clung tenaciously to his demeanor. Without hearing warning of her footsteps she appeared next to him holding a plate with two chunky slices of fresh bread.

     “The fuck is this?” he grunted, as was his usual way of communicating.

     “I made bread,” she said quietly. Putting the plate on his lap, she gently took the flask of whiskey out of his hand as he watched and poured some into an empty glass. He looked her up and down without taking the cup and noticed she’d dressed herself in more of his clothes. Had he not been boiling with anger he might have remarked at how adorable she looked in a pair of his old slacks cinched to the waist with a belt she’d had to bore a new hole into. She even wore one of his faded western hats just  waiting to tumble off her head. She’d taken one of his flannel shirts and wore it rolled up at the sleeve, looking like a mock version of a farmhand.

     “Now you’re drinking like a civilized man,” she teased, offering him the cup. Glaring up at her, he snatched his flask out of her hand and looked away, leaving her with the glass. Stepping back, she walked slowly to the rocking chair and sat quietly. 

     She watched as he tore off pieces of bread and threw them to his dogs, biting her lip and swallowing the bitterness welling up in her throat. His anger was a quality she probably knew more about than he did, having been around countless men who exhibited the same response to any and all unpleasant situations. When her father had been feeling cruel nothing was off limits; there were no hateful words he wouldn’t say, no cherished item he wouldn’t break… Moods like this were like little tornados, and she knew how to hold on until it was over, knowing repentance would soon follow.

     Her patient reaction also arose from her inability to match his combative behavior. If there was even the slightest trace of kindness in her heart, she couldn’t bring herself to fight dirty. It’d hurt her just as much to utter biting words as it would for someone else to hear them. Conversely, if she found herself devoid of any feeling but cruelty, she thought taunting words and hints at rejection too mild a method of expressing her anger. So in these situations she was often perplexed and thought it more constructive to mind her tongue until it was over. She knew well that i f she were ever that angry there’d be no going back. Why play at it without finishing the job? It seemed like a waste of energy. So she sat in his clothes silently as he threw the bread she’d made to his pups.

     “When a woman makes you bread,” she sneered in a low voice, ”you’d do well not to throw it to the dogs.”

_Well. That was unexpected._ She hadn’t even gotten through her glass of whiskey yet.

     “Yeah, well when a man pulls yer ass outta the fuckin’ snow and minds yer cuts and fevers, you’d do better than to push him off you like yer too good ta be breathin’ the same air, princess,” he growled without looking at her.

     His words ruined the air around her, poisoning it.

     “If that’s what you really think than ya shoulda left me in that foxhole. Woulda preferred freezin’ ta death than havin’ ta hear more a this,” she bit back fiercely, pulsing with unexpected fury. Her hands shook with it as he watched her stand, finish her whiskey in one gulp, and throw the glass into the fire. She even took a second to listen with satisfaction as it shattered against the stones. 

     As she limped away he rose quickly from his chair, eyes wide and clearly drunk, grabbing her wrist and swinging her around to face him. The light from the fire illuminated his face, making his eyes glow like a jack-o-lantern.

     “Yer hurtin’ me!” she yelled, trying and failing to tug her wrist out of his grasp.

     “Aint hurt nothin’ on you, girl. You’ll know real well if I do,” he snapped, squeezing her wrist tighter and twisting it uncomfortably.

     All the sudden he let go only to cup her face with his hands and pull her mouth to his. What started off as a demanding act meant to dominate and frighten her, within seconds became gentle and  surprisingly soft. She could feel his rancor at being rejected melting slightly, revealing that he had a deep and abiding vulnerability which required more than a little guarding.

     When she didn’t push him away he spread kisses and nipped the skin all over her face and neck, stopping only when he realized he was seconds from biting her harder than he should.

     “Yer walkin’, he mumbled. “Ya were able to get a fire goin’ an everythin’.” She glared at him as he spoke, but he had long been finished with being an asshole for one night, perhaps after having exhausted himself with kicking things all day.

     “I’m bout done with tha' look on yer face,” he growled, picking her up and returning to his chair. Sitting her down on his lap, he playfully patted the side of her behind and returned to his flask. He offered her a sip, fully expecting her to push it away, but instead watched her swallow a gulp big enough for either a foolish lightweight or a seasoned drinker.

     He whistled and clapped his hands, praising her as she did so.

     “Didn’t know ya had it in ya,” he marveled. 

     After a moment he cupped her cheek again and gently caught her bottom lip between his teeth before she could pull away.

     Sensing her reticence, he pulled back. “Ya gon’ tell me what tha fuck yer problem is or am I gon’ have ta hog tie ya every time I want ya ta kiss me?” he said gruffly, taking another swig. Sighing to himself, he thought better of this method of interrogation and instead let his hand curl around her waist and held her close.

     “I…I’m like other girls,” she stammered. The more she thought on the words she wanted to say, the more apparent it was that her hands were shaking. “I never kissed nobody, and nobody ever seen me naked like you did,” she said quickly, prompted by her nerves and the sudden need to unburden all the worries that had weighed on her since he found her half dead in the woods. “Not even sure what we were doin’ last night and…,” she went on, agitated and wracked with anxiety. “An-and then you’re tryin’ ta kiss me but I can’t…I can’t get control of it in my head. Feels like my heart about beats its way outta my chest when you come near me. I just wish it’d stop for just one damn minute so I can think,” she said between breaths, full on panting now. She looked utterly relieved to have spewed every word out of her mouth. “I can’t think when you’re near me.”

     “Darlin’, I - “ Daryl began, but was cut off suddenly.

     “I’m not done” she said pointedly, and with a smirk he was silent.

     “I gotta say this, an I’m real sorry if it hurts ya feelings…but lettin' a girl pee on the bed you sleep on is just awful! I don’t know what ta make of any of it!” she said, exhaling a sigh of relief.

     “Okay, I’m finished Daryl,” she said, crossing her arms across her chest.

     What she saw when she looked at him incited such uncontrollable enmity inside her she just about knocked out every stitch on her body trying to hit him - the bastard was grinning stupidly, hiding it behind a hand he had pressed against his mouth.

     She was furious, thrashing on top of him, swinging her fists and raining poorly executed blows anywhere she could. He wrapped his arms around her and held her to him laughing, occasionally raising the hand to shield himself playfully from her punches.

     “Stop beatin’ on me, woman!” he yelled and couldn’t help but continue to laugh as he said it. With one arm behind her knees and the other around her shoulder, he was able to comfortably tip her backwards as he kissed her, bringing his hand up to stroke her cheek as he did. 

     “I aint made ya pee on ma bed, ya lil’ spitfire,” he chortled, “ya need ta be sure a that.”

     “Yeah, well, sure seemed like it,” she snorted. 

     “Gon’ have ta go slow with ya, ‘spose,” he continued, planting hot, open mouthed kisses on her neck and across her chest until her skin disappeared inside his shirt.

     As he cradled her against him his hand began to undo the buttons on her flannel shirt torturously slow, kissing a trail further down with each inch of skin he revealed.

     “Thought you were gonna go slow!” she said with labored breath, a frightened tinge in her voice.

     “I am, ya have ma word,” he purred, ”thing is, ma word aint worth shit when I’m drunk an hard with a girl on ma lap so you’ll have ta forgive the transgression.”

     “All yer talkin's got me wantin’ ta make ya come again, on account of what a prick I was bout that nice bread ya made,” he said in a low voice.

     He sat her upright so that he was eye level with the shirt he continued to unbutton. 

     “C’mover here and kiss me again,” he mumbled, looking up at her face. Between the whiskey and their screaming match she couldn’t make heads or tails out of anything, so she exhaustedly forfeited the argument and did what he asked.

     She let his hand catch the back of her neck, pulling her down to him as he licked inside of her mouth. She moaned quietly when she felt his soft tongue and barely noticed that he’d slipped his hand inside her shirt.  _Sly bastard._

     He took her breast in his palm and squeezed gently.  “Let’s play a game,” he whispered, locking eyes with her while rubbed his thumb across her nipple. Her vision was clouded with lust and whiskey and it made him happy to think that only a few days ago she’d been nowhere near as comfortable. Daryl was of a mind that if you weren’t full of whiskey and intending to fuck at least one day out of the week, you were probably living your life wrong.

     “How do you play,” she asked breathily. 

     “Well, how bout ya close yer eyes the way ya did last night an keep em closed like yer asleep. Tha way ya don’t have ta be nervous bout nothin’, can jus’ let me play with ya,” he explained with a voice saturated with lust. “Ya don’ like it, ya say stop. If ya do like it, ya let me keep goin’ ’til the game’s over,” 

     “Only rule’s ya gotta keep yer eyes closed an' relax, an’ ya don’ say stop less I’m doin’ somethin’ ya don’t like. Got it?” 

     She nodded her head slowly and rested it against him, having already shut her eyes when he suggested it.

     “Take a deep breath, ya had a long day,” he said. He felt her inhale as he opened the shirt wider. While she expelled all the air from her lungs she felt his warm tongue on her nipple as he took her breast into his hand and fed it to his open mouth. He lapped at it and moved it against his tongue without sucking on it entirely.  He figured that by repeating the events of the night before she’d have a basis for comparison and could put things in perspective. He could feel her take a breath and release a barely audible sigh. 

     He pulled her body tighter against him, relaxing into her side as he had the night before, sucking on her nipple quietly. He was eager to revisit something that made him feel calm and peaceful as he took a deep breath and sighed against her breast.

     He oscillated between gently suckling at her noiselessly and becoming more frenzied, licking up and down her breast. She was soon covered in his spit, her nipple too slippery to hold in his mouth.

     She could feel the subtly dominating pressure of his hands, keeping her flushed breast from moving as he continued easing her nipple in and out of his mouth. Daryl tried his best not to think about how badly he yearned to slide his dick right between her gorgeous tits. The thought made him so hard his balls throbbed.

     Moving his hand to her buckle, he undid the pants she wore and found they were big enough for him to maneuver his hand in with plenty of room to spare.  As he combed his fingers through the tiny bush between her legs, he felt her begin to squirm away nervously.

     “Shhhh, sh, sh…” he hushed her, “gon do everythin’ slow like last night. Aint gon’ do nothin’ ya haven’t done b’fore. Got nothin’ ta be nervous about.”

     “I’ont like gettin’ everythin’ wet…” she whispered, voice quaking a bit.

     “Aint pee, baby. Gotta trust me on that one. Sides, aint doin’ that right now n’ all yer hollerin’ gonna make ya lose the game is all thas gon’ happen.”

     “Didn’t know you could lose this game…” she said breathlessly.

     “Ya can lose real bad. Jus’ devastatin’” he said with a grin.

     “What happens if I lose then, huh?” she countered.

     “Keep yappin’ when yer ‘sposed ta be relaxin’ yerself and I aint gon’ letcha come. How bout that?” 

     “Don’t then, if yer gon’ be a bully about it,” she spat.

     “Gon’ make ya eat those words. Now shut yer trap n’ let a man enjoy himself.” 

     Daryl trailed his middle finger over the swollen lips of her pussy and moaned, “there ya go, open ya legs for me honey. Aint so bad.”

     He coated his fingers with the slick between her legs, bringing it up her body and painting it around her nipple until it looked glossy and slippery. He went back down to dip his fingers in to coat them again, moving back and forth tantalizingly until both nipples were covered significantly in the wetness leaking out of her pussy. 

     “Jesus,” he moaned to himself, taking his time to lick her tits clean, sucking them deep in his mouth.

     Sliding his finger into his mouth this time, he coated it generously with his spit and slid it into her cunt. He stopped short at her entrance before pushing it inside her excruciatingly slow. His hands were wide, fingers thick and callused. A worker's hands.  Once he was buried up to his knuckle he left it there so she could adjust to it as he put her nipple back into his mouth. He rested there with it, nipping and tugging, playing with it to his heart's content.

     Hooking the finger buried in her cunt, he put slight pressure on that rough patch of nerves deep inside her. He felt an immediate reaction as her pussy choked his finger, soaking his hand. Removing it, he heard a slight gasp of disappointment escape her lips as he wiped the copious amount of her come across his tongue, looking as if he were licking melted ice cream off his hand in the middle of summer. Grabbing her neck, he pushed his tongue into her mouth fiercely, dumping her come there, making her eat it. He couldn’t imagine she’d be able to tell what it was, but the act made him harder than he’d ever been and he loved nothing if not to tease himself relentlessly.

     “Take these the hell off,” he grumbled, tugging the pants from her legs. Being so oversized they dropped easily from her legs collapsing into a bundle on the floor. 

     Her long limbs stretched out in front of him and the sight made him catch his breath. “Open your legs wider, darlin’. Wider n’ that,” he ordered. Moving the hand that cradled her back over a few inches, he was able to make a V with his fingers and pull back her lips of her cunt, exposing her clit to the air. “Ya got such a pretty lil’ pussy,” he said as he took in the view. She was pink and wet and absolutely perfect. Something about knowing he was spreading that part of her open and staring at it blatantly while she helplessly squeezed her eyes closed made her sweat.

     Stretching her out as far as he thought was comfortable, he reached with his other hand and touched the very center of his middle finger to her swollen and protruding clit, using the slightest pressure imaginable. She wiggled and twisted in response, gently thrusting her hips up to cause more of what she could’t really say.

     His touch was feather light as he barely ghosted his fingers over her, holding out until he heard her whimper.

     “S’matter honey?” he teased in a low, scratchy voice.

     “Don’t know,” she moaned in frustration.

     “Tell me what it feels like,” he prodded.

     “It…it burns. But in a good way…” she explained, “and it aches too.” She tried to grind herself against his finger, but he pulled his hand back every time. Bending his head low, he gave her nipple little kitten licks before sucking at it louder than he expected to, groaning low in his chest.

     She gasped until he stopped sucking at her entirely and she struggled for something she was only just beginning to understand. Whatever it was, it was burning her up like a fever.

     “Feel good?” he teased as he grazed the sides of her clit with the very tip of his finger.

     “It burns too much, I can’t take it,” she groaned like a cat in heat.

     “Tell me what it's like, honey,” he said in a commanding voice.

     “Don’t know” she whined. 

     Nuzzling her breast gingerly with his nose, he whispered, “hurt when I do this?" giving her a quick lick.

     “No, no, do it more,” she panted. He responded with a few more licks that left her in even more of a helpless knot of sweat and frustration.

     “Ya like that, hm?” She nodded vigorously.

     “Want me to suck on it?” he continued, gently biting the underside of her breast. His question was met with more vigorous nods. 

     “Tell me you want me to put yer pretty tits in my mouth and suck on em. I wanna hear ya say it ta me,” he teased, entirely for his own benefit.

     “Please do it,” she groaned. He chuckled to himself and accepted this modified version of the command he’d given her.

      _Good girl_ he breathed to himself, the words barely audible, until he caught her nipple between his teeth and flicked it with his tongue, enjoying her tiny rasps of submission as he held her cunt in place. He suckled her in his hot mouth her until he could feel her heart beating against his ear as a drop of sweat rolled down her neck. Tugging her nipple with his lips he let it go and stopped again.

     “Want me to make ya come?” he whispered. Silence, as he noted her contemplating what he meant, then more nodding.

     “C’mere and put ya legs over me,” he said, pulling her onto his lap to straddle him. He positioned her so it was comfortable for him to slip his finger into her. Pressing her forehead into his shoulder she moaned against him and let him maneuver her hips up and down, guiding her until she was sliding on his thick finger, fucking herself on his hand.

     “That’s it, take another finger for me, real slow…” he rasped, pushing her slowly down onto two of his fingers.

     He handled her hip firmly, grinding her down on his hand until he nudged her up and settled her slowly onto three of his fingers without warning. He watched her pussy swallow them and pushed into her deep, curling them as he rocked her against them. He could feel her stretching around him, hearing how much she ached with a pleasure that was laced with the discomfort of being made to take a third finger. 

     His face took on a darker tone all of the sudden, as if he'd remembered something troubling, and he held her hips down firmly on his hand. A raw mixture of anger and lust  bloomed like black flowers in his eyes as he held her tight around her back and began thrusting into her deep and forceful. 

     “Don’t ya ever turn away from me when I kiss ya,“ he groaned, punctuating his words with the movement of his hand, fingers noisily fucking into her wet cunt. 

     “Ya hear me?” he growled. She could hear the hurt underneath the punishing rage in his voice.

     “Ever. Again.” His words were now accompanied with a light slap on each of her nipples. Grabbing the back of her neck she felt him lose control for a second as he used this as leverage to hold her on his fingers, pushing in deep as she could take it.

     “Know what I’m gon' do to ya next time ya pull away from me? Gon’ hold ya down tight like when I stitched ya up an fuck ya til ya can’t see straight no more,” he mumbled cruelly.

     Hearing the tone in his voice as he unloaded his anger into her ear made her pussy seize around his fingers. He could feel how hard she was going to come on him by the harsh sounds of her gasps and hiccups against his shoulder.

     “I…I think I’m gonna c-come” she sobbed as he fucked her with his hand. Hearing the strains of worry in her voice softened him considerably and he felt like a real piece shit for letting his anger get the best of him for the second time that night. There was a good reason he only fucked whores.

     “I know, sweetheart. I got ya, s’okay,” he whispered with no small amount of affection.

     “Don’t wanna get it everywhere-“ she sobbed again. In that moment he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was a total asshole.

     “S’alright, honey, go ‘head, I want ya to…” Wrapping her arms around his neck, she buried her face in his hair and screamed into his neck as she came hard enough to spray all over him in a heated gush.

     “That’s it honey, let it go all over me,” he soothed as the muscles in her pussy clenched around him so tight it felt as if they would eject his fingers completely.

     “Feels real good,” he reassured her, knowing she’d be embarrassed after drenching him in come. He hushed her as he adjusted the rhythm of his hand, pumping in and out of her slower and slower until her breathing calmed. _Jesus Christ._

     Cupping her ass in both his hands he lifted himself with her shaking body in tow and walked towards the bed. “Alright, c’mon, yer done for the night...” he whispered, lowering them both onto the bed as she clutched him tightly. If either of them could see themselves from across the room, they’d notice how desperately they held onto each other, fists in each other's clothes, wildly determined, even in sleep, not to slip away.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everybody was Kung Fu fighting...

 

     Their roles at the cabin eventually harmonized into a natural rhythm, and life found them cohabiting peacefully enough. It was rocky at first. They were both scarred and tense like two retired fighting dogs, never truly unguarded, never fully at rest. Daryl’s heart especially was most like an abandoned pit bull pacing inside a cage; too cautious to sustain affection, too wild to tolerate a home. But that didn't mean he wasn’t in need of it. He was perhaps more desperately in need of it the harder he was to love.

     They each had their own brutal ways of dealing with intimacy. For Fox it was entertaining the fantasy of leaving him to die wherever he was and living the remaining years of her life curled in his cabin, surrounded by his mutts. For Daryl it was hurtful gestures, occasionally cruel words, and uncontrollable outbursts that peppered his usually silent disposition. They bit and snapped at each other with some consistency, until the nighttime swallowed them and their bodies hungrily sought each other out under the blankets.

She grew to welcome his hands and mouth, rarely shying away. He  touched her the very same way every night, but never fucked her, never asked that she touch him, knowing she was too naive to question him about it. What he didn’t know was that every morning when he woke at first light her eyes would follow him as he crept noiselessly out the back door and into the yard. She would slip out of bed and watch him from a crack in the door, usually left carelessly ajar, peering out at him with one hungry eye. She stood still, mute, ogling as he tugged on his cock, moaning and shooting his come on the ground. Watching him made her feel breathless and needy as she drank him in. He appeared consumed by the same pleasure he made her feel when he reached for her in the night. Every time she watched she died a little death, observing as he stretched his body taut in the sun, digging his cock out of his pants. It was the first thought she had the moment she opened her eyes and she never missed the chance to spy on him. She eyed his muscled arms, barely breathing, as he’d cup his balls in one hand while spitting on the other before grabbing his dick. She tried to memorize his growls and grunts, capture the sound of it in her mind, so she could replay it throughout the day in his absence. They were by far her favorite sounds, faintly pleading, but slightly aggressive, until he’d gasp and spill himself on the ground. She was curious what it would be like to take all the fluid that shot out of him into her mouth, drinking from his cock as if he were a fountain, but there was such an overwhelming amount it made her cringe. He stood in the same spot, twenty feet from the door, without fail.

     The trouble with lustfully spying on him began when she concentrated on the sounds he made and realized he was moaning the same word over and over. After weeks of it she was finally able to decipher that the word he was groaning relentlessly was the name _Beatrice_. Hearing this, she never stood by the door and watched him ever again. _Beatrice? Who's Beatrice?_

     Weeks turned into months as Fox convalesced, and she made no mention of the name she’d heard. This was not to say she wasn’t thinking of it constantly, tormenting herself with thoughts of him whispering that name into the morning air, letting it carry on the breeze like a wish. _Beatrice. Who the fuck is Beatrice?_

***

     They'd comfortably embraced a simple routine: he took the dogs and hunted, drove his pickup truck into town to trade and returned with supplies; she made sure he set out well fed and warmed by hot coffee, taking care to tuck an extra bag of jerky into his coat pocket. There was always a meal warming on the stove for him, regardless of the hour he returned - and he always did. He might not have always spoken to her, preferring to nurse his whiskey and cigarettes until the moment he took her to bed, but he always came home. She wouldn’t bother trying to sleep until he did. 

     Her nightmares became recurrent. He often found her rocking steadily in his old chair, staring blankly into the fire, smoking his cigarettes. She would eventually fall asleep this was, a cigarette burnt nearly to nothing still squeezed between her fingers. If there was anything left of it to smoke he’d stick it between his lips and finish it off in the outhouse. Always he looked down at her warmly and with a sleep addled face, scooping her up gingerly and laying her back in his bed, then burying her under a mountain of blankets. When she wasn't staring into the fire she was pacing the floor in her sleep, stumbling around like a zombie. If he caught her sleep walking, which he did rather easily as she always managed to step on one of the dogs, he’d wordlessly carry her back to bed. More than once he’d found her naked, meandering aimlessly in the yard. He’d had to run outside to collect her, growling “the fuck, darlin’ - aint nothin’ out here fer ya.” From then on he’d put a bolt on the doors and windows, hoping she wouldn’t notice.

     “The hell ya dreamin’ bout thas’ got ya moanin’ n’ walkin’ into the stove all the time? Ya know I found yer ass climbin’ on the table like a goddamn mountain goat bout a week ago,” he chided on one occasion. She didn’t answer him.

     Her dreams of a black, cavernous tree came regularly. Always it was accompanied by the deafening snarl of dogs and the wan face of the moon. A bloodless voice consistently erupted from the mammoth tree, but it droned predictably now, with little change in its monologue. There were little fluctuations in detail that kept her terrified. Sometimes the tree branches held out sleeping heads by the hair, in a gruesome mockery of a family tree. Other times the tree bloomed beating hearts, pounding in unison. Or its limbs would become inhabited by a parliament of owls, all wearing human faces she could almost recognize. 

     In the sobering light of day she found these images a bit melodramatic. Between Daryl’s characteristic growling and that damn moon shrieking in her dreams… She usually had a headache.

*******  


Daryl grew increasingly obsessed with locating the source that had inflicted Fox’s scars. He’d said nothing about it to her, but his days were spent questioning the nearby towns, looking for trouble as thoroughly as he searched for game. He’d hoped to find the tip-offs he needed without breathing a word of it to his Fox. He burned to indulge his fantasies of shredding the bodies of those men, cut for cut, until they wore every mark he found on his girl like a suit of scars to their own funeral.

     He often pulled the blankets down and examined her scars on the occasion that she slept, passing his hand slowly over every inch of them. He looked at her ears, small and untouched, her face and neck smooth as porcelain, giving her the look of a sleeping doll. The gentle slopes of her collarbone had also been spared, and her soft breasts were perfectly topped with the rosy peaks he helped himself to as much as she’d let him. But that was where her softness ended and the obscene marks began. He’d traced every poorly healed gash and every pit and knot with the tips of his fingers, starting between her breasts and ending at her calves. To him the scars seemed almost methodical, each one varying in shade and depth, making him wonder if they were made repeatedly by the same person over time. Had her skin not been so sweet and bright as a beautiful day, or had her body been heavier and made to carry more weight, it might have made him less nauseated. But his Fox was so slight that it made him ache doubly. 

     Each time he looked her over as she bathed, or when she changed or slept or let him put his hands on her - he felt his anger contort and swell anew. Those faceless butchers were going about their lives without consequence, and he yearned to spoil every minute of it. He wanted every moment left to them to be gutted by suffering and he wanted them to know why. At first he was compelled to let her enjoy her revenge on them, but as time passed he became more and more disgusted with the thought. She was safe with him, and as long as he had anything to do with it she would never again be exposed to blood and violence, wouldn’t have any further traumatizing memories to pollute her dreams. 

     Besides, he was a control freak. He’d been secretly grateful that she wouldn’t leave the cabin without him and the dogs. He certainly wasn’t in the market for a wife, but he found himself changed for the better knowing someone cared enough to put food in his belly. Someone that would know if he died in the middle of the night. Someone who wouldn’t take him to task for his radically unforgiving tendencies. She’d become frighteningly precious to him. Irreplaceable maybe. If that was what it meant to be sick with love, then he was it; but this feeling came at a price. There was an uncontrollable anger he carried with him like a bomb, ready to detonate at the first sign of any threat to whomever he cared enough to protect. He supposed love was as dangerous as the people who felt it.

     Until now he’d resisted asking her for details about who’d mutilated her. He hadn't wanted to remind her of it. But finding no leads anywhere, not a single clue, he had no recourse but to try.

     It wasn’t like he didn’t know how to find every undesirable sack of human waste in Alaska - he could find anybody. Alive or dead, if you moved around in the world he could track you. But this was different, this was bigger. These people did not want to be found. Putting a cigarette in his mouth, he resolved to stop for whiskey before making his way home, hoping it'd relax her mind enough to answer his questions.

** *** **

****      She heard his old Dodge pickup pulling up in the snow, the car door slamming shut behind him. He found her sitting on the floor next to the fire darning one of his vests, surrounded by dogs. One lay his head on her lap while another curled up under her knees. The remaining few dozed in various states of relaxation. He stopped to take in the sight, the glow that surrounded every living thing on Earth that he loved. He didn’t know what to do with himself. He'd been too lost in his head to feel sensible lately.

     Tossing off his western hat, he removed every item of clothing down to his long johns. He found himself walking over to his little family and lowering himself down on the floor with them. He leaned his head on the only part of her that wasn’t occupied by a snoozing pup and let his body sink deeper into the floor. He felt a wet lick on his cheek and another on his forehead, while a cold nose nudged him in the gut and settled by his belly.

     “Assume it wasn’t you lickin’ ma face jus' then,” he groaned, wiping himself off with his sleeve.

     “Coulda been,” she said jokingly through a smile, leaning over him to playfully lick his eyebrow.

     “Why y'all lickin’ me for, get a hold a yerselves,” he grumbled affectionately.

     “Got a plate of rabbit stew keepin’ warm on the stove. Slice a pie too. Could use some whiskey myself. Can sit with ya at the table,” she said without looking at him. “You’re home late,” she continued with a tone in her voice that told him she’d been thinking too much about it. Fox never asked him where he was going or when he was coming back, never remarked on the time either way. Her voice sounded restless, as though she’d been needing a distraction from her thoughts for some time now.

     “Keepin’ tabs on me now?” he said as he bit her thigh playfully.

     “Just…woulda liked you around today," she mumbled.

     “Fair enough. Can work on the house tomorrow. Then ya can keep yer eye on me,” he teased.

     “Ya mean it?” she stopped sewing and asked in a more child-like cadence than was usual for her.

     “Course - whas' goin’ on with you?” he barked, sounding more annoyed than he actually felt.

_“_ Nothin’ goin’ on,” she muttered, pushing everything off her lap, including his head, so she could stand up.  _Beatrice is what’s goin’ on ya dumb fuck. Don't think I’m not smellin’ your clothes while you’re sleepin’,_ she thought.

     Walking over to the stove Fox wrapped her hand in a small towel andcarried his food to the table in a chipped glass bowl. Daryl settled himself in a chair and snaked his arm around her waist, making her squeal and hauling her onto his lap as she tried to walk past him.

     “Looks damn good, gon’ feed it to me?”  She could tell by the tone in his voice that food wasn't foremost on his mind. 

     “Somethin’ happen to your hands that you can’t feed yourself?” she retorted.

     “Ma hands'r busy touchin’ up on ya” he grunted into her neck.

     “Fine then here,” she grinned, feigning frustration, and spooned a chunk of rabbit into his mouth. 

     “Yer a lifesaver, gimme more I’m hungry,” he affectionately demanded as he let his hand travel slowly up thigh.

     After the third spoonful he pointed to the wall where his clothes hung off a nail.”There’s whiskey in mah coat, darlin’, why’ont ya get yerself some n bring it o'er here.” He scooted her off his lap and gave her behind a soft pat. Now was as good a time as ever. 

     She returned with the bottle and sat back on his lap. 

     “Take a drink girl, gotta ask ya somethin’ ya aint gon’ like.” Fox took one of those long swigs that always impressed him.  _She aint never been kissed but she can drink and smoke with the best of 'em,_ he mused to himself.

     “Good enough? Now talk,” she spat curtly, assuming he was going to put an end to her wondering about the mysterious Beatrice.

     “Been goin’ inna town some, more than usual,” he began, realizing he was speaking into an icy glare. _Lookit that, she’s bout ready ta take my nuts off n sell ‘em ta cannibals before she even knows what I’m gon’ say..._

_“_ Not jus' Coldfoot, but Rampart 'n Beaver too. Went as far as Fort Yukon sniffin’ 'round…” he continued.

     Fox immediately spun off his lap, eyes shrinking into tiny slits. ”Go on…,” she said, arms crossed over her chest.

     “Tryna find whoever cut ya up,” he said finally.

     “Oh.” Fox’s face turned from red to white quicker than Daryl had ever seen. _The_ _hell she think I was gon' say?_

     “Whatcha got ain't jus' cuts from when I found ya, Fox. Takes time to make marks like tha'. Gotta know who an’ when an’ where - can’t let it rest, just can’t,” he said, tapping his foot furiously against the wood floor, sending his knee bouncing. “There’s men livin’ an’ breathin’ who hurt ya bad 'nough ya nearly died,” he continued gravely. “An’ I know how scars work, darlin’. Ya got fresh ones and ya got old ones and ya got ones even older'  them.” He tried to slow himself down, feeling the heat in his voice and the bile rise in his throat. “Whoever it was only spared tha parts he wanted ta look at,” his words boiling over with restrained anger. “An it aint over fer ya neither. Ya think I’ont see how goddamn scared ya are a everythin’? Ya jump ten feet in tha air an turn white if ya hear so much as leaves rustlin' in the trees. An’ ya can’t imagine the shit ya do in yer sleep that I’ont even tell ya bout.” Taking a drink from his flask, he stopped and tried again to steady his booming voice. _She’ont need me screamin’ toppa everythin’, goddamnit._

     Fox continued to stare silently as he handed her the whiskey.

     “Drink some,” he said. She did quickly without hesitating.

     “Look, I’m tryna say tha' ya might feel better if I took care a it. An I’m goin' ta whether ya tell me what I need ta know er not. Jus’ gon’ take me a whole lot longer,” he stated matter-of-factly.

_"No,"_ she said in a whisper. Clearing her throat, she said it again, only louder, “No.”

     Silence.

     “Yes ya are, darlin’,” he sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers, grappling with his mounting frustration. “If ya won’ tell me what they done then yer gon’ say where it happened.”

     “I won’t,” she said quickly.

     “Ya are, I aint playin’,” he said with dangerous finality. Forgetting who or what deserved his anger, he knew this feeling of reckless ire usually ended with him doing something stupid. He felt it coming on unmistakably, like nausea.

     “I’m not tellin’ you nothin’ and we’re not talking bout it anymore!” she yelled, turning her back.

     “Someone ya love there, huh?! Someone ya don’ want me ta skin like a rabbit fer what he done to ya! That it?!” he bellowed. There was no reasoning with him now, and he silently regretted everything that would come out of his mouth over the next few minutes.

_“_ NO!” she yelled back, tears spilling down her face.

     “THEN TELL ME WHERE THE FUCK IT HAPPENED!,” he exploded. She’d never heard him yell like that and began instinctively backing away. He walked towards her, the dogs snapping at his feet, barking like crazy.

     “DEADHORSE!! IT HAPPENED IN DEADHORSE!!” she screamed, hurling herself onto the bed and sobbing into a pillow.

 Daryl sighed heavily for what must have been the hundredth time that evening as he walked over to the bed with his hands on his hips. “Didn’t have ta be like that, coulda jus’ fuckin’ tol’ me when I asked it,” he said in his usual gravelly voice, feeling every bit as angry, but more in control of himself. He sat on the bed next to her. “Need ya ta tell me more, darlin’, but I aint gon’ have ‘nother screamin’ match bout it.”

     “Hear me?” he said a bit softer, pulling on her arm to get her attention. 

     Fox sat up, pulling her knees to her chest. Reaching into his back pocket, Daryl removed a red handkerchief and held it out to her. She accepted it gratefully.

     Once she finished wiping her eyes and nose she looked up only to see him descending on her, claiming her mouth possessively. His lips were dry from being out in the cold, but she didn’t care, and for a second she even forgot what she’d been crying about. His tongue stroked and flicked against hers, making her involuntarily moan and accept him into her mouth in total submission.  Inch by inch he forced her flat against the bed, grabbing the back of her neck perhaps too tightly, meaning to hold her to him while he edged her downward. His tongue dove into her deeply, drowning in her soft mouth, as his lips slanted over hers. Maneuvering her head into the crook of his elbow he clutched her tighter and took what he wanted. They were suited for each other perfectly: she loved to be conquered by him, and he was made to do just that.

     “ Where in Deadhorse?” he murmured into her hair, having pulled his mouth from hers to nuzzle her neck.

     She wouldn't answer, save for the sound of her panting.

     “Don’t make me ask ya twice, honey” he growled and gave her neck an intimidating bite.

     When he still didn’t get a response he grabbed her tiny wrist and locked eyes with hers.

     She started to struggle, trying to tug herself free, but he grabbed her other wrist and stopped her.

     He pulled her wrists above her head, crawling between her legs until his body covered hers entirely. She couldn’t move an inch. Despite her rising anxiety at the feeling of being restrained, she could feel herself grinding her hips up to meet his.

     “Tha' how it’s gotta be? I gotta fuck the words outta you?”

****Biting her lip, she wasn’t gonna take this one laying down. She surprised him by wiggling her legs out from under him and wrapping them around his waist, locking her ankles.

     “Thas the way ya want it, fine,”he hissed as he ground his brick hard erection between her legs. Holding her wrists down on the bed, he moved on her as if he were fucking her slowly, putting relentless pressure against her clit.

     “Thinkin’ bout ma dick sliding into your wet pussy like this, huh? Imaginin’ what s'gonna be like when I fuck ya,” he whispered.

     “M’gonna open yer legs jus' like this n push my cock deep inside as you can take it,” he threatened as he continued to teasingly maneuver his hips against hers. “Gonna push all of it inta ya pussy an’ yer jus’ gonna lie there 'n take it,” he said as she moaned.

     He grasped both of her wrists in one hand and dragged the other one to her mouth, rubbing his thumb gently across her bottom lip. “Open ya mouth fer me,” he whispered, pushing his thumb in slowly. She licked tentatively then instinctively began sucking on it. She did so only for a minute before he suddenly popped it out of her mouth and replaced it with his tongue.

     Slipping his hand between their bodies, he deftly undid her pants and pushed his thumb downward until it was lost between her wet lips. 

     In an unguarded moment he relaxed his grip on her wrists and she was able to slide them out. She did so slowly and felt his hand above her caress and squeeze her hands, letting her pull them free. He always walked that delicate edge between tenderness that bordered on reverence and force that could easily become violent. It was as if his body had its own language, one in which she could understand and respond to in kind.

     Once free, her hands moved towards his face to cup his cheeks and cradle them carefully as he kissed her. She pulled away and broke their kiss in order to catch his gaze and held it for a moment. What she saw there satisfied her in a way she couldn't have predicted. Despite his size and penchant for domination, she could see in his eyes that he was more of a slave to her than he ever let on. The more captured by her he felt, the harder he fought to contain it by trying to possess her, overpower her, protect her. He was at the mercy of his craving for her, and it overwhelmed him. He was someone who had never found himself at the mercy of almost anything. She relished this power over him until he broke their gaze by sliding a hand over hers, kissing her desperately as though he were starving for it.

     His thumb, wet from her mouth and soaked by her cunt, rubbed across her throbbing clit with a new purpose. At first it was his intention only to tease her cruelly until she gave in and told him everything he wanted to know, but he lost himself, sinking into her, so warm and wet. He found her finger's tender strokes against his cheek utterly debilitating and he quickly found himself wanting nothing more than to give her as much pleasure as possible.

     With her legs still wrapped around his waist he moved against her and worked her clit with his thumb relentlessly. She marveled at the idea that this was probably just like actual fucking, and before long she was shaking against him, burying her head against his neck.

     “Wanna make you come, baby - tell me where he lives” he whispered in her ear, almost pleading with her. 

     After a few moments he groaned in frustration and slowed his movements. “Don’t wanna stop, don't make me,” he said through his own panting.

     “Two miles East off the Dalton Highway,” she said in a small voice. She didn’t want him to find what he was looking for, but unless she was prepared to leave him she knew he might never quit asking. Not to mention that he seemed pretty adept at torturing her.

     Holding her gaze he tugged the shirt over her head and kissed her breathlessly. “One man or two,” he rasped, kissing her frantically down her body, tugging off her pants.

     Drowning in hot waves of desire, she felt herself losing the battle. “One,” she hissed.

     He buried his nose in the soft hair between her legs, finally able to let himself breath it in deeply. He dipped his tongue into her wet heat and savored the taste, licking from her hole to her clit. Between movements and breaths of air she heard him whisper, "Tell me his name, baby.”

     She thrashed and whimpered against his mouth as he circled her clit and suckled at it gently. Covering her eyes with her hands, it almost seemed like she was hiding from the effects of her impending orgasm. She yelled her answer in a strangled cry as she came against his face, bucking against his soft tongue as he was sucking and licking her clit into his warm, wet mouth. He stroked her swollen pussy slowly with his whole hand as she shook from the aftershocks, laying his head on her belly and resting his cheek there.

     "His name is Negan."

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sleep sex is a real thing, and I kinda wish I invented it. Thanks so much for reading:)

     That morning Fox’s eyes fluttered open like a butterfly newly freed from its chrysalis, to find him gone. She wrapped a blanket around her naked shoulders and walked to the window, feeling a cold draft on her cheeks. She inhaled deeply that nostalgic feeling which always accompanied the cold air when it hit her face, whispering of some far away memory she’d likely never catch. Gazing out into the snowy white light of morning, into the jagged sea of tree skeletons, she eyed the empty space where Daryl’s truck would have been parked. She saw fresh tire tracks in the snow, generous indentations leading to town. He hadn’t abandoned her or tried to face his enemies alone - his tracks lead to a road opposite the highway. He would be back. She could be sure of that at least.     

     Standing by the cold window, Fox opened up her palms, spread her fingers out, and pressed her hands against the glass. She harbored a desperate feeling - a feeling of being caught in limbo, trapped between two warring halves of herself. One half pressed against the window, sad as a jailbird longing for release; release from Daryl, from his cabin, from the life she now inhabited. The other half  leaned against the glass longing to be kept there forever, jailed interminably by the sensual world he'd created, and by Daryl’s heavily guarded heart. It was there that she always found herself fumbling around in the dark with no way in. What she _didn’t_ feel was a craving to be part of life outside. Everything beyond the cabin seemed to beat with a pulse out of time, out of rhythm, with her own. She was frantic to keep up, but knew she never would.

     Daryl couldn’t imagine the danger he was courting by seeking Negan out, or the trouble he would drown in if he found him. He seemed to be begging for disaster, pleading for it even, without really knowing what he was asking for. There was an immediacy to Daryl's anger, as if he had been through this before and finally resolved to do something about it. She couldn’t help but wonder if she was the sole reason for his ardent need to enact retribution on the tormentor from her past. Maybe he saw himself in her; maybe in her scars he saw his own. As if by annihilating her attacker, he could somehow murder his own. If this were true than in killing one man, he would inevitably kill two: the man who slashed her pretty body into ribbons, and the man who scarred his back. She wouldn’t stand in his way - his reason is as good a reason as any. Let him see who he wants to see in Negan's eyes, whether he lived through it or not. It was their freedom he wanted, freedom from their scars. She could love him for that.

     She was lost in a maze of heady thoughts, feeling unmoored, floating in the vast tumult of her own fate. If only she had a sign that she was going in the right direction. That it wasn’t all for nothing. That they really could  make the past worth living through, could make survival something they really wanted. 

     She shook her head to clear her mind, stop her thoughts from running wildly in her head. Today she had a different sort of axe to grind. Daryl had pried her open like an oyster last night, relentlessly demanding answers. Though she thoroughly enjoyed giving in, the playing field had become grossly uneven. _It’s your turn, Daryl. If I have to tear this place apart, I’m gonna find a few of your secrets too… See how you like it…_

     She looked around the room with a hungry glare, prepared to dig and snoop to her heart’s content. She found this situation to be a prime example of an often underestimated difference between the sexes: a man takes what he wants by force...but a woman, on the other hand, takes what she wants through stealth and cunning.

 

***

 

     With a hot cup of coffee Fox set to work looking through the wooden trunk of clothing at the foot of Daryl’s bed. Besides taking mental inventory of all the shirts that needed mending, socks begging to be darned, pants that could use a patch or two and coats that'd do well with a fur lining, there was nothing of note. Already being seated on the floor, she gave a quick glance under the bed where the edge of an old storage chest caught her eye. _Well, what have we got here…_ Tugging at the squat, heavy box she managed to drag it out from under the bed with considerable effort. It was caked in a coating of dust so thick it felt partially solidified, needing to be sloughed off before undoing the latch. She managed to wedge it open with one of Daryl’s many hunting knives and licked her lips as the old lid creaked and groaned, leaving heavy clots of dust in its wake. Fox wiped her now filthy hands on a rag and began to explore what seemed to be an elaborate collection of heavily embroidered and delicately beaded women’s clothing.

     In truth, what she found could only be described as finely detailed and exquisite. Fox’s eyes were wide and she hardly blinked as she removed a pair of carefully folded silk stockings and held it up to the fading light from the window. Its sheer netting was lined with a dark seam that traveled from its French heel to a tightly woven band of yellowing white lace. There were garter belts whose exhaustively intricate embroidery withstood its aging, all manner of girdle, satin demi-cup bras, and enough crinoline and camisoles to line the entire cabin. Tucked protectively inside a disintegrating pair of lace-up heels peeked the very top of a photo: a woman, leaning suggestively on a stack of luggage in front of the cabin. The photograph displayed surroundings which were vastly different from the dead trees around it now, but it was still recognizable. The woman in the picture was the very definition of lovely with dark hair that fell to the middle of her neck, barely grazing her shoulders, and bluntly cut bangs that just about tickled her eyebrows. She had the lost and longing look of a silent film actress, all drowsy-eyed and sultry. The only oddity was that the woman featured was stark naked, wearing only her heels. The back of the picture had “Home Sweet Home” scrawled in black ink. _Could this be…Beatrice?_ Judging by the photo, it wasn't too much of a stretch to assume she was looking at a prostitute.

Fox dragged the old trunk to the fireplace so she could eye the beautiful garments with more accurate precision in the waning evening light. The whole of the trunk’s contents consisted of lingerie, save for a bit of kohl and a Baroque style handheld mirror. Sinking into herself, Fox felt shame for the first time since she’d met Daryl - shame about the jagged scars marring her body and shame about her inadequate understanding of sex. She felt her face begin to warm with sadness and confusion. _Did they live together? Is she coming back?   How old is this trunk? _Myriad unanswerable questions flew frantic in her mind like fireflies caught in a jar. _If he misses her so damn much he should have her,_ she thought with indignant finality. As she began to undress, tugging her clothes off roughly, she began to assume that everything she’d worn had been at some point touched by that woman’s hands. She let her jealousy guide her as she tore into the pile of lingerie, setting to work on a plan to set things right in her mind before he returned.

_***_

 

     Fox heard the roaring of an engine, louder than usual, when Daryl finally returned to the cabin. She’d exhausted herself and sat quietly in his armchair, nursing a generously poured glass of whiskey. She heard the sound of his footfalls and the groaning hinges of the front door as it opened, but she concentrated on the fire in front of her between long sips. She waited there for him, lounging like an elegant cat, nonchalant and blasé. She heard the yielding of his footsteps and felt his eyes take in the opened trunk, as if she could see things unfold outside of herself. She imagined his gaze as it took in her discarded pile of clothing, _his_ clothing, his eyes following the trail she'd left of her shorn hair, like breadcrumbs through a black forest. Finally his eyes fell on a pair of stocking-clad legs lounging irreverently over the arm of his chair. He stood there, silent for longer than she expected, and made no move to greet him or otherwise get his attention. The cabin fell so terribly quiet in that moment, she swore she could hear the dogs breathing outside in the yard. There was a stillness so pregnant with unspoken words that the sound of his boots echoed its own portent of doom, stomping mightily like a giant in a fairytale. He made his way to her slowly, still wearing his coat and hat, face a model of shock. His speechless glare traveled slowly across her legs covered in nude stockings that ended mid-thigh in a band of delicate, if not faded, white flowers. He took in the garter belt that clung perfectly to her waist and the translucent gossamer of fabric that did nothing to cover her breasts. But it was her face that shocked him the most. Her eyes were sensuously lined in black kohl, stoic, collected, and wouldn't dare look at him. Her hair...her  _hair..._ pitilessly hacked until it hung just short of her shoulders, the front cut bluntly across her forehead.  Only by divine intervention did her carelessly chopped hair, angrily cut in front of a foggy mirror with a hunting knife, come out..elegant, graceful even. Its new length accentuated her long neck and framed her round cheeks in a way that lent a seductive quality to her babyish features. In the dim light he could see a photo laying willfully forgotten on the floor, likely having slid off her lap, or out from between her clenched hands. There was little difference between the woman in the picture and the face which finally looked up at him. Her body was awash in a yellow glow from the fire and she was warm to the touch as Daryl hesitantly ran the tips of his fingers over her calf, slowly, as if she were breakable.

     “This what you like?” she rasped, hiding her heartbreak. “Why you never ask me to touch you? Why you stand outside in the same spot every mornin'-“ Daryl cut her off and eagerly lifted her from the seat and dropped her onto his bed so fast it knocked the breath out of her.  He tossed his coat off quickly, letting it fall to the floor, his hat following soon after. 

     “I want to know who B-“ she was silenced once again, this time by a hand covering her mouth, more gently than she expected. To be fair she didn't know what to expect.

He sat next to her, held her in a protracted stare, a stare she couldn’t read. They stayed that way for some time, his hand covering her mouth while the other pushed through her hair. She returned his gaze with eyes large and spectral as an owl’s, allowing her mouth to be held shut. He suspended her in silence there, rendered her mute, as he examined her breathlessly. Wherever Daryl’s mind had led him was where he wanted to stay; he stretched the minutes that passed him, unwilling to let them go. Touching her face slowly, he ran a finger down her cheek, leaving a trail of black kohl in its wake. She found him memorizing the contours of her face as if he’d captured a ghost or a phantom from his dreams. 

His face took on a tight and pained aspect as he tried to speak, and she watched him fumble, searching for words just out of reach. She sat wistfully, quiet, observing the reflection of rapidly changing thoughts on his face. She tried to name them as if she were staring up at the night sky recalling the constellations: she saw desperation, fear, regret, desire, guilt, all in tangent with one another, all of them at war, none of them forgettable. Should could see sharp pangs of vehemence launch brightly in his eyes like a meteor, only to sputter out slowly and dissolve into remorse. An unmistakably old pain revealed itself in his features like a shadow, changing his countenance, making him look exhausted. 

     His hand suddenly slid from her mouth, defeated in some essential way. He looked at her in a way she’d never seen: he had the indisputable mark of vulnerability. Nearly child-like in the way he bent his head and began to rest it against her shoulder, like a prodigal son returning home. She felt him grasp the translucent fabric that poorly covered her chest, imagining that he was smelling it while his head leaned against her. Fox knew how strongly she smelled of old clothes - stale, musty, like the inside of that chest. She doubted they felt the same way about it; to him it was probably redolent of something beautiful. Something he missed.

     Fox had never been a stupid girl. She knew the garter he’d been carelessly fingering reminded him of someone else. Knew it wasn't her face he’d been ruminating on as he absent-mindedly tugged on the flowery embroidery around her thigh. But she couldn't help but let it happen, couldn't tear herself away or bring herself to shatter the memory he seemed lost in. A memory that had effectively tamed an otherwise wholly undomesticated man. She hadn't even noticed the storm of disorder that had always clouded his eyes until the sight of her clothing had calmed it. Holding him felt akin to putting her arms around a sedated wolf or a bear, miraculously subdued, ineffably tender. It was intoxicating - she was consumed with it. All she could do was cradle him there, mouthing _it’s okay it’s okay_ so low it was as if her mouth was moving but nothing was coming out.

     Swallowed by curiosity, she tugged her shoulder from under his head and cupped his cheeks, lifting his face until it was squared with her own. His eyelashes flitted as he looked up at her with doe-eyes; whatever misery that had cursed him all his life had been broken, its heavy shroud lifted. Without all his hardened aspects she saw a glint of the boy he once was in the soft curve of his cheek. She saw the young man he had been - fresh, destructive, brimming with wild energy - reflected playfully in the shape of his mouth. He shoved his head back against her shoulder like a cat, nudging her and demanding affection. She had no recourse but to stroke his hair and let herself melt into the spell her lingerie had cast, her mimicry of another woman. She lay back, sinking into the bed, cradling his head to her chest, feeling him collapsing against her. 

     “You can’t go to bed like this - take your shoes off,” she said with a slightly authoritative tone. She held her breath  as he obediently removed his boots, setting them on the floor and looking out into the dark room in a daze. 

     “Pants too.”

     He didn't even cast a glance back at her as he peeled off his layers until he was down to his underclothes. He turned around and looked to her as if waiting for her approval, her permission to lay back down in his own bed. It was all too much and his reactions were making her dizzy.

     “C’mere then,” she whispered, pulling the covers back. 

     She settled herself comfortably on her back as he fell against her with a peaceful sigh. Laying his head on her chest, he listened to the rhythm of her heart, drifting off to sleep almost immediately. Fox stayed awake for some time, eyes wide and staring at the ceiling, wondering what the hell just happened.

 ***

     Fox opened her eyes in the dark, keenly aware that something was wrong. She instinctively tried to raise herself into a sitting position, but was caught - paralyzed by something heavy and hot, pressing her into the bed. Panicking, it took a moment for her to recognize the heavy, hot thing as Daryl, asleep, and partially covering her with his body. No cause for alarm, but she was having considerable trouble getting out from under him - realizing quickly that he was also moving his hips against her in his sleep.

     She hadn’t yet felt the weight of anyone's cock against her and she was surprised at how very hot it was, his whole body burning up like a furnace or a fever. _He’s dreaming…,_ she thought contemplatively as she lovingly brushed a bead of perspiration from his forehead, finding his hair damp and matted. 

     “ _Daryl”_ she whispered into his ear. “ _Daryl wake up, you’re dreamin',"_ she cooed at him, pushing the sticky hair from his forehead. When he didn’t respond she considered shaking him, until she heard him moaning deeply in his chest.

     “ _Daryl,”_ she whispered again, giving his shoulder a shake. Her attempts at rousing him were met with more insistent thrusts. _“DARYL,”-_

_"_ Mmmmm…s’okay…” he mumbled incoherently. She wasn't entirely sure he was awake. 

     Before she could say his name again, he was sitting up with eyes half open, fitfully tugging the shirt from his body. “It's too fuckin’ hot” he grumbled. Soon he was wrestling his legs out of his pants and kicking them off also.

     “Daryl?” she wondered how many times she’d said his name in the past five minutes. He hadn’t acknowledge her at all, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he was still lost in a dream. He’d accused her of doing things in her sleep she had no recollection of, so it was possible he could be doing the same. To confirm her theory she waved a hand in front of his face. Despite his half-opened eyes, he gave no acknowledgement.

     She looked down, catching sight of herself, and let the details of the evening sprout anew in her mind. Before she had time to think Daryl was moving his hips against her again, though deeper and slower than before. It was as if feeling the embroidered silk under him had triggered an image, precipitated a turn in the plot of his dreamscape. It made him remember he wasn’t moving himself against just _anybody -_ he was with _her._ Exactly who that _her_ was remained to be seen. For Fox at least.

     His touch suddenly changed to reflect a modicum of reverence, and she could feel in his movements that he was hesitant, apprehensive, internally struggling. Quite like he wanted very badly to lose himself in something he had previously sworn off for good. 

     He rubbed his cheek against her clavicle adoringly, pressing his face into her skin as his hand snaked upward to cradle her jaw. His  kisses felt almost pious and devout as he spread them up her neck, reaching her ear and nuzzling at it with his nose. Once again Fox was submerged in a bottomless yearning for affection. It was a craving that made her senseless, even anxious at the thought that gaining even a little bit of love would only herald  its inevitable loss. She was so hungry for it, and for so very long, that she doubted the possibility she could ever really be satiated. No amount of love could appease her now - she wanted it too much. The void inside her had become immeasurable, desperate to quell its ache.  It was a twisted part of her that lead her to pretend to be who he dreamed her to be. Maybe there was nothing she wouldn’t do to lose herself in the love she craved - even if that meant impersonating someone she'd never even met .

     Whatever woman Daryl had lost left a hole in him, and it was empty, ghastly, and haunted by regret; the hole in Fox burned steadily at its edges, and it was made of all the years she hadn’t been touched in kindness, if she was touched at all. Their mutual missing pieces recognized one another, both for their own separate reasons. She figured that love. Wasn’t it? If not that, then what? At least it was something. For hurt people, it was something.

     Daryl buried his face in her hair, purring at her, losing his hand in its strands as he cupped the back of her head. Just as she abandoned herself to his soft, almost feline caresses, soon enough it belied his crude nature.

     “ _Gon’ shove my cock inside you, can’t wait no more,”_ he growled sweetly into her ear. “ _Aint no good without ya here, can’t…find my way between ya legs, can’t do nothin’…can’t do nothin’ no more”_ he went on rasping incoherently, punctuating his rambling with anguished groans.” _…aint right what ya done, aint right…”_

     Fox lay still, frozen under him, listening to his lustful gasps turn mournful. Even in his sleep Daryl got a hold of himself quickly, hardening his doleful tone.

     “ _Gon’ come so hard in ya, Bea. Gon’make ya so fulla me ya won’ be able ta do nothin’. Gon’ keep it in ya with my cock if I gotta. Til’ ya belly gets big an’ then ya won’ be runnin’ nowhere, I promise ya that.”_

     He was beginning to make sense. Daryl’s voice ground and churned in her ear like a laboring machine, its wheels convulsing, its bolts rattling. Fox took his words in fearfully, feeling the repercussions of her ruse. 

     “N-n-no, Daryl, it…it aint like that with me, I aint her, I aint her, I aint ever done it,” she stammered, trying frantically now to wake him.

_“Gon’ take it like a good girl? Cuz Imma slam a kid inna that belly, an’ it’s gon’ be mine an’ yer gon’ know it by the look in his eye…”_ Daryl’s voice oscillated between a heavy whisper and unintelligible mumbling. His words became increasingly muffled the harder he pressed his lips against her ear. She had no choice but to listen as his other hand held her solidly. 

     Daryl nipped his way across her jaw, guiding her mouth to his with a firm hand. He kissed her gently with no other purpose than to communicate all the things he felt but couldn’t say. As the darkness of the room enveloped them, he lured her away from her own fear and timidity with all the promises of warmth that his lips conveyed. She acquiesced after only a few moments and sighed her relief against his mouth. Nudging her lips apart with his own, she gave him entrance and gasped inwardly as his warm tongue drowsily sunk deep into her mouth. His lips claimed hers possessively and with unexpected ardor, his movements so hypnotic they soothed her anxiety, quieted her mind, and drew her senses into one perfect singularity of desire.

     “ _I love you so much, Bea. I can’t let ya go…I can’t…”_ he mumbled into her mouth, breathless and full of heartbreak.

     “ _You don’t have to, Daryl. I’m right here,”_ Fox whispered in reply. She was giving in and giving up whatever convictions she might have been holding on to that kept her from losing herself entirely to her own lie. Though she imagined he couldn’t comprehend her voice in his unconscious state, her response thwarted any further attempts Daryl may have made at being tame. Come what may she decided to accept whatever this night brought her; she’d charmed the snake out of him, she figured she’d lost the right to cry when it bit her.

     The gentle kisses that had lulled her into a trance gave way to the heat of urgency as he kissed her hard, emitting a primal growl. Dragging his hand out of her hair, heavy with sleep, he encountered the gossamer thin shirt she still wore and yanked it off her furiously. Its old threads snapped easily and the lovely thing came apart in pieces.

     “I’d like this flowery shit more if I was the only one who got ta see ya in it,” he said, the volume rising in his voice. Her body jerked and startled, and for a moment she wondered, sadly and with a sinking sensation in her gut, if she’d made a grave error. He might have loved this Beatrice, but he could also have hated her in the same breath.

     Her fears were allayed when he moved on from his anger quickly, as one often does in dreams, tearing through a menagerie of emotions without lingering. Sliding his arm under her shoulders he cradled her against him in a display of control, but with an undercurrent of tenderness. The muscled nature of his arms was a tacit warning of his dominance; but the soft touch of his hand told a different story, it said _just because I can hurt you doesn’t mean I will._ It was balancing herself on the threshold between the two feelings that created a delicious friction inside her.

     Descending on her, Daryl teased her lips open, drawing her pink tongue out of her mouth languidly, flicking and circling it achingly slow with his own before taking her gradually in a searing kiss. Fox let out a squeak into his mouth as she felt him suddenly pinch her nipple much harder than she was accustomed.

     “ _Know ya love that_ ,” he murmured, his voice deep and typically gravelly. _So this Bea likes it rough, I can take it for one night…_ But could she really? She knew it was too late to be asking questions like that.

     “ _Tell me how hard ya want me ta fuck you, I wanna hear ya say it…”_ he moaned. _Shit, shit, shit…_ Fox thought silently, swallowing her rising panic. Maybe she didn’t have to say anything at all and he’d hear her voice in his dreams…

     Daryl gave the nipple he’d been pinching a light smack, meant to playfully unnerve rather than hurt her. “ _That aint an answer, sweetheart.”_

     Fox breathed a sigh of relief when he lost his grip on that tenuous and dreamy string holding all his thoughts together. He moved his cheek across her breast, no doubt feeling the hard nipple drag against him enticingly. He lapped at it without warning, laving it with his tongue. She began to squirm beneath him as he slid his arms under her shoulders to keep her steady while he enjoyed himself. He held her tight as he suckled at her, swirling his tongue as she moaned, taking her nipple between his teeth and tugging it. He stretched it as far as he liked, flicking his tongue against the very tip as he did so, making her burn and writhe.

     “ _Gotta get ya ready for me, ‘nless ya been havin’ bigger cock than mine… N’ I doubt ya have,”_ he breathed, chuckling to himself as he snaked a hand between her thighs. He slid his finger smoothly between her lips, moaning his approval.

     “ _Lookit how bad ya want it, Bea. Lookit how wet I make ya. Want me ta empty all my come in ya, don’t ya. Gon’ be my best girl an’ hold it in ya pussy for me. Ya want that, sweetheart?”_ He mumbled at her between sighs and hisses as he circled the tip of his finger around her hole, massaging its edges before sliding in to the knuckle. He followed it quickly with another, then a third without warning. Fox tensed, but committed herself to being brave. Three was a lot.

     “ _Relax, lil girl…”_ Even in his current state Daryl could feel the tension coiled tightly in her muscles, shallow panting, her heartbeat slamming a frantic tattoo. He put a hand against her chest as her heart pounded in a way he instinctively recognized as fear rather than excitement. Somewhere inside the labyrinth of his unconscious mind he heard her whimper. 

     “S’goin' on girl, ya nervous as a virgin on 'er weddin' night,” he chortled mockingly. The irony of that statement was not lost on her, and in that moment the clinging nature of her white garter and stockings felt suffocating. 

     Confused by her apprehension, Daryl opted against fucking her roughly on his hand and instead pushed his fingers as deep as her body would allow and held them there. He whispered his encouragement disjointedly in her ear as he massaged the inside of her cunt as deep and slow as he could manage.

     “ _S’jus’ me, Bea. Aint nobody else here.”_ Fox had never heard his voice sound so unguarded and honest, devoid of its usual tinge of aggression. His fingers pressed forcible circles against her utterly responsive vaginal wall, rubbing the swollen patch of nerves hiding deep in her cunt. The almost nurturing and protective sound of his voice, suffused with the grating and scratchy undertones afforded him by nearly a lifetime of smoking tobacco, drew her to him, lulling her. Just like the clothing he’d ripped from her body, her tired threads of resistance came apart in his hands, pieces of her scattering and surrendering to him.

     His fingers pushed deeper than she thought possible and she felt a pressure mounting against her cervix she couldn’t describe. It lacked the burning insistence he spread like wildfire across her clit, even surpassing that nucleus of hunger inside her pussy that called to him like a siren to fill her. The throbbing that bloomed from her cervix was all encompassing, radiating from her cunt and slowly ascending until it enveloped her entire body. Its vibrations felt never-ending, claiming her in ecstatic waves, sinking her to the bottom of some pleasure-filled ocean she couldn’t name. He felt her back arch as she pushed further onto his hand, and he cradled the small of her back, making her body bend like a dancer. Fox couldn’t moan, she couldn’t whine or yell; her whole body sighed and shuttered without a sound save for the frenzied scraping of her breath.

     “ _That’s what ya need, I know, I got ya…”_ he soothed _,_ like some kind of erotic lullaby. Lowering her trembling body to the bed, he drew his fingers out of her and smeared the considerable wetness on his cock, letting it mingle with his precum in a luscious union. She didn’t notice, as she lay feeling boneless and beautiful, unbelievably at peace, that he’d gripped her under her knees, pushing his turgid cock inside her freshly stretched entrance.

     “ _Jus’ like that, ya feel so good, Bea…”_ His invasion of her cunt jostled her roughly from her reverie as she panicked more at the alien sensation than at any feeling of discomfort. The sheer girth of him frightened her as she felt herself stretch to accommodate the intrusion. He was so hard and smooth it felt as if he were sliding warm marble between her legs, and for a moment she entertained an irrational fear that she’d never reach the end of it and he’d be pushing into her forever.

     “ _Darlin’, yer tight as hell, feel so goddamn good around ma dick. Aint tryna hurt ya none, jus’ take as much as ya can n’ hold onna me. Ya know how I like it…that a girl…”_ Fox could barely bring herself to listen, focused entirely on the expanding feeling of fullness overtaking her. 

     “ _Almost there, sweetheart. Lookit how good ya takin’ it…”_ he mumbled before kissing her, warm and wet. With three-quarters of his cock buried inside her, he stopped pushing and propped himself above her on his hands. He worked her with shallow thrusts, nice and slow, with a gentle rocking of his hips. “ _Thas’ my girl,”_ he groaned, beginning to gently pump in and out of her, going a little deeper each time. “ _Put ya legs around me sweetheart, I wanna feel ya squeeze me while I’m fuckin’ ya…”_ Fox did as he bade her, the movement of her rising legs tilting her hips upward in a motion that effectively sank the whole of him inside her.

     Daryl let go a groan concurrent with her shaken and shocked whimper as he relished being buried inside of her completely. The name of his former lover shot out of his mouth like a bullet, as if he was letting go a secret that had been rotting inside him for too long. He moaned her name with the expulsion of his breath and pushed deeper until he couldn’t push any further, gasping with profound relief.

     “ _Daryl…”_ Fox sobbed, her plea wound tight with coils of fear and pleasure and heartache. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a slight twitch in his face - he’d heard her, and she hoped that meant he was that much closer to waking up. She also hoped it didn’t mean that at all. She savored the feeling of not having to be alone in her own body. Neither of them did.

     The pleading sound of her voice suddenly triggered an old resentment. She heard him growling at her as though she’d taunted a dangerous animal. The rumbling in his chest reminding her of watching the onset of a storm from far away, its rolling thunder a warning to anyone within earshot.

     “Open yer eyes,” he snapped loudly, the sound taking her aback. “Want ya ta watch me shove my dick into ya whorin’ pussy,” he snarled, pressing her into the bed with his hips. 

     “Better keep yer legs open for me an’ don’t you fuckin’ stop.” His hips began to slam into her hard and fast, rolling and pushing into her cervix. Despite the black mood that hung over him, his heavy pounding brought back that same feeling of completion. It stirred a sensation of wholeness inside her, a primal impulse to welcome his plunges into her body and lose herself to a higher urge. Every cell in her body invited him to do as he threatened and drench her insides with his come, encouraging it to take root. It dispelled her fears and opened her in a way that made her cervix vibrate with pleasure, the walls of her pussy grabbing at him, telling him to stay.

     He felt every last drop of her resistance melt away and with it his desire to punish her with his cock.

     “Take my come, Bea. Take it. Gon’ fill ya til’ ya belly swells.” His promises were accentuated by the now vigorous hammering of his thrusts. 

     “I want it,” Fox gasped, surprising herself with this loss of control. “I want it, Daryl. Don’t stop, I want you to…please, Daryl, I want you…not ever gonna leave you…”

     Her words penetrated him, waking him from his dream, and he stopped dead in his tracks. “The fuck…” he whispered to himself, utterly bewildered. She saw the recognition of his movements and the clarity in his eyes as he blinked, stunned, but still powerfully hard inside her.

     “Fox…honey, the fuck are ya lettin’ me do to ya…” he choked out. She was already lost in the world they’d created, real or imagined, as she pushed her lips against his ear and whispered seductively, if not imploringly: ”Keep going.”

     “Fuck…” he groaned, moving inside her. 

     “Make me come, Daryl…” she breathed. He didn’t need to be told twice. Whatever questions he had, whatever he’d done…it could wait.

     “That what ya want, sweetheart? Need me ta make ya come?” He heard her swift intake of breath and enjoyed prodding her with his questions. She silenced him with a flick of her tongue against his bottom lip, biting it gently.

     With a growl he kissed her hard and pushed experimentally against her, having no recollection of his previous actions that were rough and demanding. He slid into her slowly, rising up on his hands and hovering over her. Pushing himself in and drawing himself back out smoothly. After the past hour his slow thrusts only served to prod the fire when what she needed was to be doused with fuel.

     Wrapping her hands around her neck, she drew him down to her, moaning, “C’mere, Daryl.” To his complete shock she began to nudge him, trying to roll him onto his back. _This night is fulla surpises ain’ it…_ he thought to himself. He fully complied and watched her settle over him in her inexperienced way. She shed her self-consciousness with every passing second, pushing herself onto him and slamming down hard, relishing the returning pressure on her cervix.

     “Jesus, Fox…fuck…” he moaned as she tried to establish a comfortable rhythm. He understood what she wanted as he gripped onto her hips, making it easier on the novice. He slammed her down on his cock and took up a punishing cadence, moving her up and down harshly, fucking himself with her. She leaned down in an effort to get herself closer to him and he caught her there, crossing his arms over her back, gripping her shoulders.

     “ _Hold onna me, sweetheart_ ,” he whispered as her arms slid around his neck. Using her shoulders as leverage he thrust up into her wet cunt as he pulled her body down, pumping himself into her fast and hard.

     “Like that? That what ya want?” he teased. “Right there? That where ya need my cock?” He was keenly aware of the sensitive and likely engorged spot he was hammering into and he reveled in her pleas and gasps as they became more high pitched, mutating into a desperate whimper.

     “There ya go, want ya ta come on my dick, jus’ like that,” he growled affectionately. “Gonna come fer me, aint ya…can feel ya squeezin’ me. Gonna make ya come so hard…”

     Held firm against his chest Fox groaned into his neck, repeating his name in a harsh whisper. _Daryl please Daryl please please…_ She could hear him encouraging her in a low tone as he often did. _Don’t stop honey you’re almost there, come for me, I got ya…thas a good girl, ya gonna come, honey, ya gonna- thas right, sweetheart lookit ya…thas right, such a good girl…comin’ so hard for me…_

     His words spun a web around her, imprisoning her as she yelled, coming hard and losing herself against him while he murmured to her. Through the haze she could feel him getting harder, almost like he was expanding. His thrusts were reckless then, making her bones rattle with it like an internal earthquake. She’d never seen such sincerity in his face, not even on the previous evening. He looked exposed, staring down between them at his rapidly thrusting cock as it disappeared inside her soft thatch of curls. He looked helpless, and as he approached the precipice of his impending orgasm she became possessed by the echoes of the promises he made in his sleep. Pushing herself upwards, she pressed all her weight into his hips, sealing them together, keeping him from any further movement as he gasped and ground into her, trying to buck her off and empty himself onto his own belly. She pressed her lithe body against him relentlessly, trapping his cock, refusing to let him go.

     “M gonna come honey, PLEASE” he choked out, halting his thrusts but only too late. “I can’t stop…I can’t…” he gasped as he unloaded his come into her. She rocked against him gently, making his orgasm unlike any other he’d experienced. The sudden change in tempo delayed his ejaculation by a small fraction of time and the slow movements of her hips sustained the feeling, making it more of a powerful surge that momentarily disabled him. She watched with curiosity and satisfaction as he tossed his head to the side, strands of hair falling onto his face, and squeezed his eyes shut as if enduring sincere hardship. Gasps and growls poured out of his open mouth, devolving into pained whimpers. She couldn’t explain torrent of enjoyment she felt at watching him, currents of power pulsing through her like electricity as a secret recess of her sexuality made itself known.

     She didn’t want it to end, and in truth she wasn’t at all educated about the goings-on of the male anatomy, so she continued to move on him after his hot rush of come flooded her. Before she could understand what she was doing to him, she realized his whimpers of overwhelming pleasure had turned a bit agonizing. 

_“Please stop, I can’t take it, please…”_ She finally heeded him and pulled herself off, feeling his softened, tortured cock slide out of her. She lay sprawled on her back beside him, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling as the room began to brighten with light from the coming morning. Next to her Daryl lay in a similar state, wide-eyed and stunned into silence. They both panted softly, dumbfounded and speechless, pausing to take it all in as if they’d both witnessed something equally as terrifying was it was divine. Neither of them could move, their bodies enervated with exhaustion.

 

     “Who the fuck is Beatrice?”

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks for being so patient :) The next chapter is almost finished as well.

_“Who the fuck is Beatrice?”_

Silence.

      She heard nothing but silence as a blue morning yielded to the new day. Flecks of dust were visible against the rays of sunlight striking down through the window. There were so many particles floating in the air that could only be visible when the light struck it so. Enough to make you wonder about all the things there are in the world hanging around you that you can’t see. You just can’t know all there is to know about anything.

_He won’t answer me. Why won’t he answer me._ The soft smell of Spring wafted in with the cool air; it’s too early yet for a change in season, but sometimes you can catch a whiff of life, of new beginnings and transformation. It has an unmistakable smell you would recognize anywhere. It’s a dewy, morning smell, and it makes everything alright.

     He’d been darkening that sweet moment for some time, though. Perhaps she’d been willfully ignorant of how dark he really was. Maybe he’s the kind of dark that drained all the life out of the room, making everything colorful feel unnecessary, every compassionate gestures seem unwarranted. He'd even managed to blacken a room nearly swelling with the scent of a good day; a bright, sunny day with clement weather. The kind of day that dared you not to smile. Problem with Daryl was that he happened to be an incomparably graceful shade of darkness. A lovely one. Unfortunately for Fox, maybe even the loveliest. The shadows inside him loomed in a way that could make a girl want to give up a lot of important things just to get closer to it. He was a walking tarpit that compelled Fox to drown in its black depths. Quite happily, actually. And he was only growing dimmer with the weight of her question.

     Daryl raised his body, heavy and strained, pulled a crumpled pair of jeans up his legs and grabbed at his pack of tobacco. He walked over to where the blue sky poured itself quietly in perfect rays through the window and leaned against the sill. His motions were unbearably soundless. In fact, nothing about him seemed to make any noise at all. If his deepest desire was for time to stop and free him from their conversation, it was reflected duly in his air of quietude. She felt the space between them keenly, unforgiving and impossibly vast. It gave her time to marvel at how necessary longing was in defining love. Fox yearned to overcome their divide. She yearned to cast hooks on him to draw him near. She craved to drain all the shadows that haunted his face, eat his fears and his bad memories, swallow his nightmares in black bloody mouthfuls. That's exactly what she wanted.

     The name Beatrice made her _ache._

     Daryl gnawed on the side of his thumb pensively, eyes fixed on the window facing the yard. He pulled on his cigarette the way a steam engine swallows coal and burns it away in puffs of smoke.

     “Do you love her?” Fox’s voice didn’t falter or quiver when she asked the question, not after last night. Instead of cowering as she waited for his answer she lounged on her side, sultry and calm as a tigress bathing in the sun. She felt emboldened by her newfound sensuality. She'd laid claim to him as her mate regardless of his answer.

     Daryl didn't budge. He didn't turn his head, didn't answer, didn't even seem to be breathing. He only kept smoking, leaning silently against the windowsill, looking out into the yard.

     “I said do you love her,” Fox's voice was loud enough to rouse the dogs, set them looking around for any sign of danger. Fox bounded off the bed and stood squarely in front of him, her hair a mess of thick brown tangles, eyes smeared with black kohl. In such a state of dishabille Fox should have appeared unkempt, but instead the eyeliner trailing down her cheeks gave her the dangerous look of a child warrior coated in war paint. Her modesty had gone to hell as she stood in front of Daryl in nothing but the items of clothing still clinging to her: a garter belt and stockings. She wore them fiercely and unapologetically. 

     “Well do you?” she asked him for the third time, but softer, in a voice that couldn't help but echo her heartbreak.

     “Aint what ya think, Fox,” he whispered. “Ya got no idea, ya just don’t.”

     “You just spent half the night fuckin’ me with her name on your lips, so tell me what I’m supposed to be thinkin’ then.” Her statement was a fair one, and for that reason alone it piqued his anger and inflamed the shame he felt over his own actions. He was horrified at having robbed her innocence. It was an innocence she'd somehow managed to carry around despite everything else her body had been through, and he'd wasted it on a damn dream about someone else. An overwhelming part of him used these acts he’d committed as fodder for his self-hatred. Of course he would waste the last innocent part of the girl who fed him, slept by him and looked after him. _All I do is destroy things, s’what I’m good at, s’what she should expect from me._ In that moment he pitied her lot on life, having to go from one asshole to another.

     “I wanna know, Daryl. I wanna know about that trunk, and the picture…and why you’d rather take your pleasure in the same old spot in the yard every morning ‘stead of askin’ me to touch you…”

     “Ya been SPYIN’ on me? Fer how fuckin’ long?” Daryl flicked what was left of his cigarette out the back door and walked over to the stove to heat some old coffee that had been in the pot since the morning before. The only way she could tell his feelings were in a tumult was the visible cords of muscle straining across his back, making his scars writhe like snakes.

     He stroked his hair back roughly and pushed both his hands against the edge of the table. He looked hunched like a predator ready to strike and she could tell he’d been holding himself back considerably. Having spent so long living alone, his tolerance for confrontation was critically low.

     “There any way ya can _get the fuck over it?"_ he growled. He was dangerously close to losing his temper. He felt himself sliding down that spiral, where the control he had over his words and actions slipped away and all he could do was stand there and watch it go.

     “You clearly haven’t,” she spat venomously. 

     Daryl spun around and glared hatefully at her. She could hear him growling low like an animal.

     “Hate ta break it to ya darlin’ but it aint somethin’ Imma share with you,” he said loudly, holding her gaze and stalking over to her. She was resolved not to step back or retreat towards the bed.

     “Lemme tell ya somethin’, I lived here ma whole damn life. In this house. ALONE,” he was yelling now, gesticulating wildly to accent his words. She could hear a dog snarling behind her and another one bark at the commotion. It was quickly becoming another chaotic vortex of screams and barks, a stark contrast to the warm morning air sliding fast through the window on the arms of sunbeams. “Then I’m lookin’ fer some breakfast - same as I always do, in the same place at the same goddamn time - and there ya are, cryin’ like a lamb in tha middle a fuckin’ NOWHERE bleedin’ like a stuck hog HALF DEAD OR DYIN’” he yelled, coming closer and closer to her face. She averted her gaze and looked away to avoid the malice in his eyes. “Then alla sudden I got someone ta answer to, someone ta explain ma ways to WHEN I AINT GON’ CHANGE ‘EM NONE.” He was nearly panting with the force of his own anger. “That AINT what I WANT. I WANT ta be ALONE and die alone with none but ma DOGS ta mourn me. Now everythin’s changed and I aint USED TA THIS GODDAMN IT.” He was so close she could feel his hot breath against her cheek.

     Forgetting the coffee he’d just set to boil on the stove, he walked towards the front door barefoot, shirtless, in nothing but a pair of jeans.

     Fox shuddered with the sound of the door slamming and thought to herself, almost with a chuckle, that his rage had just effectively led him out into the woods half naked. She reflected on her unwillingness to cry or sink to the floor devastated, her refusal to leave him even… Instead, she made the decision to love him anyway. There was a tranquil finality to that. Regardless of what he’d done or would do, he was the intensely flawed, utterly human creature she’d resolved to love. Fox wasn’t sure if there were people out in the world that smiled a lot, or only hugged and didn't beat each other, or faced hardship gently. She was not those people - and he wasn't either. She was a scarred, frightened girl, fucked up in ways she couldn’t even begin to understand. People had fucked her up. Life had fucked her up. Life fucks everyone up. She’d rather just be honest about it. She and Daryl were fated to scream at each other until they were hoarse and smoke and drink until they died - and that was enough for her. It was more than enough - it was more than she ever expected. She’d cemented in her mind that she was going to fight for him under any circumstance. She'd made it this far and she deserved someone to love. She wasn't about to let anyone take that from her. Not even him.

     Fox grabbed two mugs and filled them with hot coffee, pulling the door open with her toe. She found him squatting on the floor just outside. Fox gazed down at him and, despite everything, was overjoyed to bring this man his morning coffee. Her man and nobody else’s.

     Daryl looked up at her with eyes now cooled and exhausted from his anger. She set her coffee on the floor intending to join him when he stood up and and rested his head down on her shoulder like a lost and angry child. He hid his face in her neck and wrapped his arms tight around her. 

     “S’too ugly, Fox. Was an ugly time. I’ll never ferget it cause ma mind won’t let me. I done things I still can’t understand, and I saw enough to keep me awake fer the rest a ma goddamn life,” he mumbled into her neck. “Can’t answer ya questions an I need ya ta be okay knowin’ nothin’ bout nothin’. I need ya not ta ask it of me, and thas the end of it.”

     “I gotta know if you’re still seein’ her, Daryl. If she’s still warmin’ your bed from time to time. Can ya ease my mind a that much?” she asked in a voice small enough to betray her feelings to him.

     “Christ Fox, know how old tha’ trunk is? Or did ya miss tha part where ya had ta chisel yer way through all that grime ta get inside. S’older than dirt. I aint seein’ nobody and I aint got a plan to so just let it be already,” he warned.  “Serves ya right fer spyin’ on me an riflin’ through ma personal effects,” he said, nudging her with his forehead. “We’re leavin’ anyway, ya aint gon’ have no time ta think anymore on this,” he mumbled.

     “Where are we going? she asked hesitantly, not exactly knowing if she really wanted to hear the answer.

     “Goin’ ta find ya man Negan. Put a bullet in his brain fer what he done to mine, an shred ‘em til he looks as pretty as we do. Tol’ ya I would. Not in tha habit a sayin’ what I don’t mean.”

     Fox sank into herself immediately, all but drowning in her own nausea at the thought of having to see him again. All at once she began trembling, soft little shakes radiating from her solar plexus, gaining strength as it passed. A small patch of rashes began to splatter across her chest in a pattern of hives that spread like wildfire. Her mind was calm, or it forcefully kept itself so, repeating a looping mantra _It’s fine, it’s fine, everything’s fine, I’m fine._ She had a far off look in her eyes and began unraveling before his eyes. Daryl’s heart broke at the sight of it. His temper made a selfish man out of him, and he knew it. It left him often unable or unwilling to acknowledge  the feelings of other people. He knew this aspect is what made him cruel. _We can only be what we are._

She reached a shaking hand up to smooth her hair as if everything was perfectly normal, forgetting she had lopped it off. The goings on of the past twelve hours had finally caught up with her. _I’m fine, it’s fine, I’m…_ All at once Fox collapsed in a heap and if it weren’t for Daryl’s reflexes she’d likely have cracked her head on the floor. It was too much - cutting her hair, losing her virginity to a man she loved while hearing him calling her by someone else’s name, and now…now the prison she’d only just escaped from loomed heavy in her future. 

_Goddamn it,_ Daryl thought to himself as he adjusted her body in his arms and walked hurriedly over to the bed. Once he’d settled her he rushed to grab a rag and a fistful of snow, pressing it against her colorless cheeks. He knew that his actions had led them to a toxic place, and he set about trying to combat it by mumbling soothing things as she lay, white as a sheet and clammy to the touch.

     Fox’s mind had enveloped her in a healing darkness, taking her away from every single thing that tormented her. She sank into a dream that found her plunged peacefully underwater, diving for seashells in a cerulean sea. With a serene smile etched on her face, she could just barely hear her name being called from below the crested waves. The farther she swam to outrun the sound, the louder it got, until her eyes flickered open. She took in Daryl's worried face hovering over her, calling her name. For the first time since she laid eyes on him she wasn’t happy to see him.

     “M’sorry, m’sorry, wasn’t thinkin’, I wasn’t. Imma do better, I swear, lemme do better, Fox…” Daryl pleaded, clearly shaken by her fall, his head lowering until it rested on her chest. “M’so fuckin’ sorry…”

     She wanted to hate him. She did. But she was starting to realize that nothing ever really made sense in the world, and if she was ever convinced of otherwise it was because she only saw what she wanted to see. Fox combed her fingers through his hair, cradling him, shushing him like he was a crying baby and not the source of unbelievable stress. It stood to reason that, had he not found her, opened his home, took her in and adjusted his whole world to accommodate her arrival, she’d be dead. The weight of her scars preceded their meeting; she couldn’t blame him for that. But something did have to change, and it would have to change immediately.

     “Lookit me,” she said in a clear voice. 

     He raised his head from her chest, her cold hand falling to the bed. His eyes were murky blue pools of self-hatred and she could tell he was steeling himself for whatever well deserved bad news she was about to dole out to him. _Serves him right._

_“_ Things are gonna change startin’ right now…” she was admittedly enjoying the sight of his face so torn with worry over her words, gnawing his lip with anxiety.

     “I’m not gonna keep askin’ bout this woman, but I do need you to promise me that you’re gonna explain everythin’ in due time. Gonna need your word on that, Daryl,” she continued.

     “Yes ma’am,” he answered quickly and in a low voice fraught with shame.

     “You’re _not_ gonna yell at me the way you’ve been _or_ storm off, slammin’ the door and scarin’ the hell outta the dogs like the world revolved around how angry ya are or aren’t,” she said with a tone that conveyed how very done she was with his behavior. “Clear?” she barked.

     “Yes ma’am” he mumbled, squeezing his eyes shut against the angry sound in her voice.

     “Good. I’m not done. Goin' back to where I came from will just about kill me. I won’t survive seein’ that man again, and I know it. You’re a tough sonofabitch but I don't think you understand that you’re not gonna survive it either. But if it’s pain and hardship you’re after, I’m not gonna stop you. But I’m not gonna hand deliver ya there either. I’ll point it out from far enough away that I won’t have ta see it, and that’s as far as I’m going. If you don’t come out-”

     “I’m gonna,” he quipped.

     Fox closed her eyes, gathering herself. “If you don’t come out-“

     “Said I’m gonna.”

     At that she was quiet. His stubborn character made him a force of nature, and it was a quality that incited her admiration as well as her fear for his safety.

     “Got any further demands?” he asked wearily.

     “I do, actually,” she answered, smiling at his exhaustion with this thread of argument. “I want a do over.”

     “A do over? The fuck’s a do over?” he bit irritably.

     “It’s when you take the events of last night…an you do ‘em over. Think you can do that? Don't want you to go to your  grave with last night’s performance bein’-“

     He cut her off by slamming his mouth over hers roughly, stopping her from further shaming him.

     “Promise I’m gon’ make it up to ya…” he groaned. She lived for the feeling of melting against him, as if her chest all but opened up, blooming around him like a flower. Anything still frozen with anger inside her dissolved, pouring out of her pussy like a warm sea. If it were possible to be grateful for every awful second that brought her to him, she was at that moment. Without knowing it Daryl had returned the humanity and compassion she had always been in danger of losing. In his touch she learned to forgive all the men she’d come to hate in the world. All she needed was one solid piece of evidence that they weren’t all worth hating - and he was it.

     It was undeniable at this point - she had a deep and abiding hunger for whatever was inside him. When he kissed her she felt starved for him, as if his heart was her prey. She envisioned herself prowling like a hunter for it, searching it out, smelling the air for the scent of it, following his footprints until she had it in her sights. Even when he wasn’t with her, her love followed him like a phantom, watching him, eating the air around him. Just because she wasn’t like him and didn’t make a show of her rage or instability didn’t mean she was any less of a predator. She was simply of a different ilk.

     “Talk to me,” she rasped between kisses.

     “Knew ya liked that” he whispered back, nuzzling into her ear.

     “I like your voice…” she confessed. “I like it when you tell me I’m a good girl. I want those words, I want them to be true.”

     “Ya gotta be sore after last night, I don’ even remember most a what I _did…”_ he murmured shamefully. Their kisses became deeper as their conversation lingered, making them sound feverish and breathless.

     “Wasn’t all your fault. I put on all that lace and didn’t stop you…” she said against his mouth.

     “Yeah, but ya couldn't have known what ya were gunnin’ fer, that was fer me to show ya an I fucked it up” he admitted regretfully. “Don wanna’ fuck ya gorgeous pussy raw. Least not the first few times anyway. Can’t make no promises after that.”

     “You really think it’s gorgeous?” she asked hesitantly, full of curiosity.

     “I’d look at it fer as long as ya’d let me, n thas’ the truth,” he murmured. “Gon’ let me look at it right now? I’ll tell ya, would feel a lot better seein’ what kinda mess I made ‘steada findin’ out when I’m already halfway ta hurtin’ ya 'gain.”

     “Go on then,” she said in such a low voice it was barely a audible.

     Daryl took one last lingering kiss, sinking into the softness of her mouth, before taking his time trailing down her neck. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt so submerged by the tastes and smells of any one person. The smell behind her neck was his favorite; he couldn’t quite name what it was that enveloped him there, other than that it was a heady scent specific to her. When he licked a trail down to her clavicle he noted the salty notes of her skin, the way his tongue dipped into her jugular notch on its way down her sternum. He paused at her nipple and gently closed his teeth around it in its entirety, flicking his tongue against it, increasing the pressure in his bite until he heard her whimper. He released her nipple finally and looked down at the reddening indentations from his teeth with satisfaction. Moving to  her other breast he bit its underside, tugging the skin between his teeth until she squealed. He enjoyed marking her skin, knowing his bites burned just enough, so that he could enjoy licking it and kissing it immediately after. He couldn’t enjoy inflicting one sensation without the other.

     Dragging his tongue down her ribs and nibbling at her belly gave her the sensation that she was slowly, deliciously being eaten alive. 

     “Open ya legs for me, honey,” he said in a voice that was deep and rich as molasses. Fox planted her feet on the bed and spread her thighs, her heart pounding at the sensation of feeling his eyes on him. “Thas real good. Lil more…”

     She was so aroused she could barely hear his voice against the static roaring in her ears. “Stay still for me, baby…” his hands ran up and down her thighs in an effort to soothe her sudden trembling. She was melting into the heat of all his “baby”s and “honey”s and “darlin”s - though “sweetheart” was her favorite. Her insides did a somersault when she thought he might call her a good girl. She couldn’t imagine why it sounded so erotic to her, but she didn’t need the answers to all of her questions.

     She felt his thumbs come up between her lips, massaging them between his fingers before spreading her pussy open. If she dared to look at him at that moment she’d see a hungry look on his face, eyes honed in on her, rapt with attention. 

     “Don’t move,” he ordered, moving away from the bed. Daryl walked to the kitchen to retrieve a clean cloth that he dampened in a pot of previously boiled water. He crouched between her legs again using one hand to spread her open while the other gently cleaned her with the rag. Hoisting herself up on her elbows she quickly became alarmed at the splotches of red and brown coloring the rag.

     She couldn’t even begin to find the words needed to ask him what he saw. When Daryl caught her wide stare and noticed the panic in her eyes, he moved his hand to her knee and gave her a reassuring squeeze. “Jus’ happens like that the first time, s’fine.” When he was satisfied with the job he’d done, he moved to boil a pot of water for the bath he knew she sorely needed. He was consistently surprised by how little she knew about her own body.

     Her knees began to collapse together and the movement elicited a growl of disapproval from Daryl. 

     “I say ya could close ya legs?” His commanding tone always spurred a delicious quiver inside of her so powerful it made her squirm. Returning to his spot between her legs, he continued to look his fill while noting the redness and swelling around her opening. He sank down and placed tiny, apologetic kisses over every part of her that looked raw. This only served to draw a moan from her that made him powerfully hard. He ran the very tip of his tongue against her clit knowing how mean it was to tease her like that. He pushed his tongue along its sides until he could feel her writhing before he pulled away. He was grateful she had no idea how hard her bruised skin was making him. The thought of fucking her while she was tender and sore, how hard she'd whimper and plea if he held her down and pushed into her anyway, made him sweat.

“I need you to touch me...“ she gasped.

     “S’jus’ gon’ make it worse.” While he was concerned for her wellbeing, his dick was throbbing at the sound of her begging.

     “Like it when ya beg me like that, Fox. Like it a lot…” he mumbled, looking down.

     There was no denying she had a masochistic streak. Maybe more than just a streak. She moved her hand between his legs and began undoing his pants as he laid on his side next to her, wanting to beg ’til he gave in. 

     “I’ont wanna hurt ya,” he said.  _Yes I do. I very much fuckin' do._

     “Why? I can take it…” she stated tersely. “I like it when you hurt me a little,” she whispered. The sound that came out of her mouth sounded akin to a child's despite her best efforts to sound more experienced than she actually was; he caught the nervous lilt in her voice and shivered as his tenuous hold over himself dissipated into the air. 

     His cock was burning up as his look turned cold and he caught her eye, grabbing her wrist tightly. “Yeah? What if I like hurtin’ ya? What if I like it too much an I can’t stop, huh? The hell ya gon' do then? Ya bring somethin' out in me I aint ever felt,” he confessed.

     As if she'd read his mind, she breathed into his ear salaciously, “I’d take it like a champ.”  _Fuck._

     She sealed her fate with those words and he lost himself, growling audibly and snaking his hand into her hair, grabbing it in his fist. 

     "Why ya want me ta hurt ya so bad? When ya know I'm tryn' so hard not ta," he spoke gravely into her wide eyes, searching for an answer. "Ya know I wanna hear ya cryin' an whimperin', beggin' me ta stop. Why ya pushin' me?" She could tell she was losing him to whatever urges he fought so hard to contain. The room felt dangerous all the sudden, and the sun beating its way through the windows a kind of mockery of their circumstance. 

     Fox looked up at him, fear flashing in her eyes. He caught sight of it and it only made him harder. 

     "I asked ya a question," he snarled harshly, smacking the flat of his hand against her pussy. Fox let out a high pitched whine, the skin beneath his hand already inflamed. She lost it then, tears spilling down her face, finally answering him, "Because I love you." 

     There it was, plain as day. She loved him...and had no idea what she was asking him to do to her. All she knew was that whatever pain he wanted to inflict on her made his eyes sparkle, and she wanted him to look on her that way. She wanted to be the reason his heart was beating faster. She very clearly wanted to embody any fantasy she suspected he might have...so he'd love her too. All those years spent being tortured by Negan only brought her to the dangerous conclusion that endurance was always necessary. Endurance was the key. If you wanted to live, if you wanted to be free, if you wanted love, you dug your heels in, and you endured. It seemed that was exactly what she thought she had to do - endure him until he was able to love her.

     He didn't respond to her admission. Just let go of her hair, let go of his brutal impulses, and fell silent. He could see clearly that they kept challenging each other, putting themselves in compromising positions, behaving recklessly, even violently, because love was alien to them. They were testing each other, trying to ascertain who was going to break first, which one would decide the other wasn't really worth it and leave. Neither of them were budging, though. They were only hurting each other harder, in more creative ways, and they showed no signs of getting tired of it. He'd never felt so close to anyone in his entire life. This fucked up war they needlessly waged on each other was their courtship, a mating call for damaged people. 

     He kissed her in a way he hadn't before, and she felt it in the way he moved against her. He kissed her slowly, and when she touched his face her hands came away wet. All the fight had left his body. It was as if they'd been possessed by something hateful and furious, and now the ghost was gone.

     "Imma make ya come," he moaned into her ear, "then ya gon' be a good girl an' take that bath and pack a bag, got it?." She nodded obediently as he ran his tongue around the rim of her ear and sank his teeth into its lobe. She heard rather than saw him unzip his pants, kicking them to the floor. They lay on their sides facing each other as he lifted her leg over his hip and pulled her closer, their foreheads nearly touching. "Stay still, aight? Don't touch nothin', an don't say nothin' less I say to. Ya aint tha boss, jus' keep yer eyes on me an listen to ma words." Fox nodded again, slower this time feeling him gently running his hand over the cheek of her ass. 

     "Say ya love me again," he whispered. Her eyes were drowning in his as she said it, trembling a bit," I love you, Daryl." His grip on her ass grew a little firmer as he kneaded it and squeezed it in his hand, patting it softly. "Say that ya mean it," he said as his eyes became focused on her lips, his grip becoming rougher. "I mean it," she answered in a voice laden with lust. Moving his head slightly, he caught her lips in a deep and affectionate kiss as his hand came down hard on her ass, startling her and making her jolt. She felt moisture gathering between her legs in response to his sudden attack, and she closed her eyes savoring the sting. His hand returned, rubbing the spot he smacked carefully in his warm, callused hands. "Don't close yer eyes, want ya ta look at me. Ya like when I smack ta like that?" he asked as if he didn't already knowing the answer.

     "I do," she breathed, looking back at him. 

     "Want me ta do it again?" She could hear the amusement in his voice, to which she offered more nodding.

     "Ask me for it," he directed. She was quiet for a moment as she gathered her thoughts.

     "Smack me again, Daryl," she assented. He leaned in towards the crook in her neck, his other arm underneath her, gripping her shoulders. His hand came down on her once more, hard enough to make her gasp at the impact.

     "Again," she whispered, and again his hand landed on her ass with a crack that resounded throughout the cabin. Her gasp was louder this time, more desperate, and his grip on her shoulders eased. 

     "Hush now," he cooed," thas quite enougha that. Ya so good, ya my good girl. So good..." She heard him trail off, mumbling his last words over and over.  She felt something exquisitely soft between her legs, softer and larger than a finger or a tongue. 

     "S'goin hurt ya less," he murmured into her ear as she melted into the feeling of the tip of his cock pressing against her clit. She moaned against his shoulder as she felt him reaching down to maneuver the head of his dick against her. "Thas good, Fox," he said, mumbling praises into her ear as she shuddered around him. She slid both of her arms more securely around his neck creating a cocoon of gasps and heavy breaths between them. His hand nearly ground his cock against her, rubbing her clit back and forth until she felt as though she were barely breathing.

     "Know what I'm gon' do? I'm gon' come all over ya pretty cunt when I'm done," he groaned authoritatively, looking her in the eye. He moved his cock even faster against her, keeping his hand underneath it to keep himself steady. "Want ya ta beg me again, sweetheart. Beg me ta make ya come. Go on..."

     "Please, I..." she was at a loss for words at a time when he badly needed her to speak. "Please, please...I...make me..." 

     "Please what, sweetheart?" he taunted.

     "Please, please, make me come, please..." she panted, her breath laboring with ever frantic jerk of her hips. 

     "Daryl..." she cried softly as she came against his cock, her leg shaking where it lay hooked over his hip.  _IloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyou...._

Suddenly his touch was gone and she saw him tugging at his dick over her now thoroughly fucked out pussy. "Fuck, baby..." he moaned as he shot hot jets of white come onto her, spreading it against her clit and across her lips lewdly with his cock.

     They collapsed on their backs covered in sweat and come, bruises and love. This time, though, there seemed to be marked change in him as he rolled to his side and kissed her. His body language was less antagonistic, less aggressive. If she wasn't mistaken it seemed like his walls had come down just a little bit. In his kiss she felt him say "we're a good team" instead of pushing her away.

***

     The rest of the morning found them peacefully bathing each other in the yard and staring lasciviously as they dried themselves. Daryl busied himself packing their bags and making sure to unblock a small opening the dogs used to enter the house in his absence, while Fox rummaged through the old trunk for something to wear. Despite the purpose of their journey, she couldn't hide her excitement at the idea of going out into the big ugly world. She realized she might like it a little bit better with Daryl in attendance. 

     She'd never told him that the day he'd found her had been her first day outside alone. Or that she could count on one hand the number of times she'd been outside at all. There was a lot he didn't know about her. 

     As Daryl re-entered the cabin and caught sight of her he sucked in his breath. Fox had found a slinky black dress that would have left her scantily clad had she not been so small, and had lined her eyes again in black kohl. He could smell a hint of perfume in the air, however aged and stale. She even wore the lace-up heels she'd discovered. It struck Daryl as both shocking and bizarre that she should be able to walk so gracefully, maneuver herself so naturally, in such complicated shoes. He approached her with awe as he noticed how tall and leggy she looked in a short dress. 

     "S'too short," he grumbled disapprovingly, despite the delighted look in his eyes. 

     "I"m wearin' it," she curtly replied. She was reluctant to give up the peace they'd found in the past hour.

     "The woman who wore that dress was a  _whore,_ " he growled, growing more agitated.

     "Well ya must have liked it since you kept the damn thing," she said matter-of-factly. What turned the tide from a budding argument to a somewhat grudging compromise was Daryl. She'd bet good money that he'd likely fight her on everything she could think of, as long as it wasn't his idea first or he didn't exert complete control over it. She could accept that. But it was Daryl's gradual interest in meeting her in the middle that changed everything.

     "Ya can wear it when I'm around," he grunted. He couldn't help himself - she looked like someone he'd only ever seen in magazines. His concession was rewarded with an excited Fox jumping onto him, arms and legs wrapping tightly around his body, kissing his cheek repeatedly. It was the first time in too long that Daryl couldn't fight off a smile.

     "Awright, awright, get yer sweet ass outside 'fore I rip that dress off ya." She could hear the smile in his voice as he said it. As Fox walked toward the door she saw Daryl remove that yellowed bit of newspaper nailed to the headboard of his bed and slide it into his pocket.  _Shit, I forgot about that thing..."_ she thought to herself, regretfully. She commenced m entally kicking herself for overlooking such an obvious clue to Daryl's past as she opened the door and surveyed the property. 

     "Where's the truck?" she chirped, resolving not to let such a small thing ruin her excitement. He came up behind her as he closed the front door, and for a split second she was in heaven. Feeling him behind her, doing nothing special other than chattering. It all felt so normal and peaceful. She was grateful for it. Until she saw what he was point at.

     "Sold the truck, darlin'. Bought a bike," he said, as if nothing at all were strange about that. She stood quietly and stared for a good minute until she was affectionately rushed along.

     "C'mon, c'mon, aint got all day. Ya aint scared, are ya?" he asked genuinely.

     "Of a Triumph Bonneville from the 90s? Certainly not," she stated plainly as she walked past him toward the bike.

     "Now how the fuck didja know that?" he asked, openly curious.

     "Ma daddy was a biker," she answered with a wink. 

     "Girl, ya got some nerve," he growled as he started the engine, "diggin' through ma things when I don't know shit about ya...."

     The sound of his voice was lost over the roar of the engine as they rode towards the highway. Had anyone caught sight of the two that morning they'd have never known they were scarred and fucked up recluses heading out into the world to commit murder. All anyone would be able to see is the broad chest of a man covered in sleeveless flannel and a leather vest with a girl on the back of his bike squinting towards the sunlight.

 

        
 

 

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be frank, I have a lot of reservations about this chapter. I'm worried that, since we're all so attached to Daryl as a character, if I steer him in a weird direction I'll alienate some readers. I thought about the first chapter and figured that if everyone made it through that, they'd make it through this one fine. That said, when writing plot notes for the last few chapters I realized things just get weirder and more f*cked up and it spirals downward from there. My concern comes from my experience, as a reader, with people who write a storyline for a character (to whom I'm very attached) and do something like kill him off (don't kill Daryl, I have enough problems) or make him repulsive to me. That makes me mad and I'll deliberately never read anything from that writer ever again. I'm not in it for the happy ending, but there's a special bond writers have with their readers. A kind of trust and expectation, and it's something I really value. Anyway, I don't want to turn anyone off so I'm leaving fair warning here that (if you haven't already noticed) my literary tastes lean toward the macabre and disturbing. If you stay that's where we're heading. I welcome any and all forms of commentary and that includes those who don't like where this is going - write and tell me why, it only helps me as a writer. Thanks for giving a sh*t<3

      The sun was nearly red that day. They watched as it made its departure, sinking slow beneath the horizon, closing its one bloody eye against the encroaching night. Its last effulgent rays bounced off the bike’s chrome tank badge as Daryl stared out into all that redness, gripping his dick, pissing into the cold wind. Any part of Fox that had ever been modest died and was left at the cabin as she fisted the hem of her black dress and squatted, pissing into the cold wind as well. She imagined that, had she a best friend growing up, they would have shared a moment just like this, wordlessly pissing together without embarrassment. She liked to imagine that it was a common occurrence between friends, like sleepovers or birthday parties. All the things she’d only ever dreamed about. Was it crude to think that pissing next to Daryl was her chance at having everything she ever wanted? Maybe he would rub her back if she vomited. Maybe he’d share his sandwich or brush his teeth with her in unison. Take a bath with her, even. These were deeply buried desires she didn’t know she still harbored. In that moment she promised herself everything she ever wanted and more. Things would be different this time, they would be even better, because Daryl wasn’t just a best friend. He was her love. That made everything better.

     They were pulled over by a gorgeous and unpronounceable river banked by more natural beauty than either of them were accustomed, eighty miles south of Deadhorse. Daryl took in all that idyllic wilderness and couldn’t help but reimagine the heart-stirring snowscape with a few dumpsters strewn about. He promptly went to work in his mind ruining the stark elegance of the picturesque surroundings: he daydreamed giant metal dumpsters rusted with disuse, overflowing with the kind of garbage people would get arrested for dumping in the streets - like scraps of metal, dried cans of paint, a broken television, batteries, some tires. The cloud-capped mountains defied his grimy reverie; they were so damn pretty it hurt his eyes. He could never be entirely comfortable with anything so blatantly beautiful. Something about it left him wanting. All he knew was that he needed things to be a little ugly, a little ruined or disfigured, to earn his respect. It needed to have survived something awful to be worth anything to him. Either way, the idyll they’d just pissed on was a much deserved break after riding through Wiseman, with all of its fourteen inhabitants, Antigun Pass, and the Continental Divide. They rode on through without stopping, grateful there was no ice on the road, nudged gently by a wind blowing in from across the Arctic. 

     Fox pulled the sides of Daryl’s leather jacket tightly around her; it was only getting colder. Taking her place beside him, they stood watching the sky with rapt attention, watching the red sun set, thinking their own thoughts together. Fox got another one of her wishes as she leaned her head on his shoulder - they were like two average nobodies watching the sun go down. It was more than either of them could have ever asked for.

***

     They kept on through North Slope Borough before settling on a run down truck stop diner called Eugene’s. Fox just about looked like a raccoon with circles of black kohl outlining a thick frame around her eyes. Her hair was blown crazy from the wind. She’d never felt more beautiful. 

     From the first sound of her heels clacking against the scuffed diner floor she attracted a swarm of eyes that ogled her with fascination. It began with two truckers stopping in for a midnight coffee; she could read their eyes without even having to look. First they’d glanced at her with lust, she surmised, their eyes roaming over her body in appraisal and summation. Next came the look she hated, which was the double take. It only took a split second and you’d likely miss it if you didn’t know how to read the signs. The double take was when they noticed her scars and looked back again quickly, quick as lightning, to make sure they’d actually seen what they thought they had - _was it real? Were those really slash marks?_ Lastly, a visible string of mental calculations as they compared the grotesque effect of her scars to the graceful shape of her body and the delicate peaks of her face. Survey says: I’d fuck her anyway.

     There were obnoxious children raising all sorts of hell across the diner while presumably their mother worked the nightshift. She felt their eyes on her too, large and inquisitive, bug-eyed and alien. Their eyes revolved around her like wet little planets as they skipped and tussled, making her dizzy. An old man reeking of loneliness nursed a beer as if he’d forgotten where he was and why, staring off at nothing under the unforgiving and occasionally flickering lights of the diner. He was the only one who brought her solace.

     The waitresses, each sunken into their midlife, exasperated, overweight, shared a collective look as if they were all sitting in an airless waiting room, waiting for death like you would wait for a root canal. _Soon it’ll be over. Soon.Waiting is the worst part._

     She felt their eyes on her, every one of them, swarming about her, menacing, as if they were all caught in the same bad dream. As they were seated Fox began to fidget. She didn’t acknowledge the menu when it was handed to her, leaving Daryl to take it in her stead. She sank into herself deeply, like a swimmer diving for shells. How could you say to someone, anyone, even if you were fucking them, that _hey, I’ve never been in a diner before. I don’t know what I’m doing. I can’t breathe._ She couldn’t even begin to imagine how to mouth the words. She supposed that was the magic of anxiety - it was like a magician holding a watch in the palm of his hand, then poof, it’s all gone. All your reason is gone.

     Daryl detected it quickly, and how could he not; fear radiated off her in thick, sweaty waves like an alarm. _She’s even worse than I am at this leavin’ the house shit._ He also thought it was charming. Endearing. Cute, even. He’d never admit it soothed him that, for once, he was not the weirdest person in the room. There was a first time for everything. If he were being completely honest, the sight of her discomfort made him love her more. As she slowly lost her shit he wondered if it were possible to love every hair on someone’s head. Maybe these were the feelings that help people forgive the world for all its reckless wrongdoing, because in the end that ugly machinery eked out the person having a meltdown in front of him. To think that life wasn’t some heartless voyage into chaos, going nowhere fast, made him uncomfortable. That life had taken him somewhere he actually wanted to be wasn’t something he’d ever anticipated. He felt proud in that moment to be part of the lucky few who had something for which they felt grateful. He was smart enough not to get used to it, though. _This life, what a shitstorm._

     He slid into the seat beside her, putting a large, warm hand over her two fidgeting ones. She looked up at him with desperate eyes and half her lip between her teeth as he slid his arm comfortingly around her shoulder. She felt small against him as he gently nudged her jaw towards his mouth with the knuckles that now hung over her shoulder. He didn’t wait to work up to an open mouthed kiss; instead he went straight for the kill and slipped his tongue between her lips. He’d gotten to know her too well to think that a reassuring pat on the knee or some well-meaning, encouraging words would do anything to snap her out of her mounting panic. Instead, he let the heavy feel of his hands and the demands of his mouth say the things she needed to hear. _I’ve got you, you don’t need to worry. You’re not trapped in your brain, I’m still here._

     He stroked her cheek softly with his thumb before ending the kiss and sliding out of the booth, taking her hand in his. He walked them over to the bathroom, nodding his head at the short order cook and the waitress whose stares burned holes into their clothes. Grateful to all hell that it was a single bathroom, he gave her a small push inside and locked the door behind him.

     Fox was in such a daze she hadn’t even thought to ask why they were all the sudden standing next to a toilet. She felt untethered to the world outside, free falling into a wordless void. There’d always been someone there to whom she was accountable. Negan hadn’t for one second of her life let her out of his sight. He was always there. Now there’s Daryl. How could she explain to him that it was her own freedom that scared her the most? She didn’t have the words.

     In one fluid motion Daryl backed her up against the wall, kissing her slow and deep. She wanted to ask him _what are you doing_ or _why are we in the bathroom_ but she didn’t, she just didn’t. The acrid taste of fear was still alive in her mouth and that far away feeling of disconnection from her surroundings still made the world incomprehensible. As if he’d read her thoughts he mumbled into her mouth over and over _I got you Fox I got you._

     He yanked her dress up to her waist without warning and, spitting on his hand, plunged it inside her newfound panties as his other hand caught both her wrists and slammed them against the wall above her head. _You’re okay baby, I got you._ Smearing the spit in his hand across her pussy, he pushed his middle finger slowly, but purposefully, inside of her. 

     She gasped and squeaked her surprise into his mouth, pulling at her wrists, inwardly grateful he knew better than to let them go. 

     “Stop,” he spoke clearly, forcefully, and she stilled as he pressed his finger deeper and held it there. 

     “That’s my girl. You’re not the boss, right? I’m the boss,” he mumbled comfortingly into her ear, feeling her relax against him, inwardly thrilled that this was working and he was successfully calming her.

     “Thas right baby. Ya gon’ be good? Hm?” he said teasingly, feeling her nod against his shoulder in response. 

     “Lemme hear ya say ya gon’ be good fer me, whisper it in ma ear,” he said and waited.

     “I’ll be good,” she whispered meekly. He could hear in the small, slightly childish tone in her voice that he’d gotten her to that place where she completely relinquished control to him. He calculated in his head that she’d be out there sucking down a milkshake and eating a cheeseburger with a smile on her face in no time flat.

     With that he kissed her hard and held her still has he started slowly pumping his finger in and out of her tender hole, gaining speed quickly. 

     “I got ya baby, s’gon’ feel so good when ya come, I promise. Don’ think bout nothin’ else, ya hear?” She responded with a sound in his ear that could easily be mistaken for crying under different circumstances. He found her wild capacity for emotions fascinating and at times couldn’t decipher whether she was crying or laughing or coming half the time. He couldn’t get enough of it. The more stressed she was, however, the more her moans sounded faintly like crying, its pitch escalating until it barely sounded like a squeak.

     “Shhhhh, you’re alright, gon’ come for me real soon, I can feel ya pussy squeezin’ on me,” he whispered, inserting another digit. 

     He held her close, creating a cocoon of safety between them that he hoped would relax her. Dripping with wetness now, he fucked her faster, knowing just how she liked it. 

     “Go on, honey, s’ok. Put ya head on my shoulder, thas’ right…” Figuring she probably needed a little push, he pressed his fingers deep into her pussy and held it there, making her grind and bounce against his hand in a way that brought him closer to her cervix.

     “Aint gon’ stop til ya come, baby, aint stoppin’…” He heard a shift in the rhythm of her breathing, making her sound panicked and out of sorts. The more submissive he got her, the more longing he could see in her eyes when she came. He’d see that look in his dreams till the day he died, he knew that much.

     “Daryl, I’m gonna…I’m gonna…,” she whispered incoherently.

     “I know ya are, baby,” he encouraged her.

     “Daryl, I’m-“ she gasped, gushing fluid over his hand as he went back to pumping in and out through her orgasm as it wrecked her, successfully diminishing her panic with a heady rush of endorphins. The walls of her cunt pulsed around his fingers making him long to be inside her so they could choke his cock.

     Letting go of her wrists, he let her slump against him and get her bearings.

     “Y’all better now?” he said, kissing her head through her hair. “Thought you was gon’ start gnawin’ at the menu or somethin’,” he chuckled, hearing her laugh as well. 

     “Good, shake it off while I take a piss. M’ fuckin’ starvin’. Man needs his meat n’ potatoes.” he said against the sound of his zipper. He could never bring himself to wipe his hand across his pants when there was come on it. Seemed irreverent in some respect. He wiped it on his dick and smiled to himself. 

     “Y’all set?” he said, tucking himself back into his pants. 

     She nodded with a smile.

     “S’what I like ta see, now get” he said, shooing her out the door. All heads turned as they exited the bathroom, but the couple was thankfully oblivious. He gave her behind a pat as she slid back into her seat and opened her menu.

     “Order whatever ya want, princess,” he said in a good natured tone as he lit a cigarette retrieved the ashtray. 

     “Can I have a smoke?” she asked sweetly.

     “Darlin’, you can have anythin’ ya want s’long as I get ma damn coffee,” he said. He watched her wave the waitress down with a slow smile as if nothing at all had ever been wrong with the world.

***

     Daryl left her with the pack and a bottomless cup of black coffee as he made his way out of the diner and into the chilly night air. She watched him go, his eyes guarded yet serene. He skulked like an apex predator, gracefully and with deliberate gait, prowling like one of his own black dogs. She watched him go and pretended for a moment that she didn’t know him, tried to look at him as if he were a stranger, to see him as he really was, independent of her feelings for him. It was impossible. The realization that she couldn’t simply un-know him, that they were perhaps intertwined permanently, gave her pause. Weren’t they riding into the sunset to kill a man? That seemed like a thing people would do to destroy themselves, or their humanity at least, not something you’d do when you fell in love. Maybe it was time to admit that she’d let things get out of hand. That she’d let her inborn instinct towards self-sabotage to compulsively ruin everything she loved yet again. The way she fantasized about locking him out of the house if he was sick or hurting was the same impulse she felt now, practically handing him over to a man she knew he couldn’t annihilate.

     Old habits die hard.

     Fox slumped further down into her seat, ruminating on these black thoughts, letting them suck her in like a whirlpool in a dangerous sea. She sat gnawing at her nail and chain-smoking as the waitress cleared their table. This was the first time she’d ever been left in a crowded room unattended. She hadn’t told him that, hadn’t asked him to stay. She could feel the empty, tired eyes of two more odorous truckers as they made their way in, their mammoth trucks waiting patiently for them in the lot by an adjoining gas station. She could feel their eyes casting a kind of spell over her, shooting glances at her furtively, making her sweat. Was she more vulnerable now that her man was gone? It wasn’t a question she’d ever had to ask herself. Never been given the chance. She felt exposed all the sudden, her face too heavily made up in black eyeliner, her outdated dress hanging off her bony shoulders. Utterly defenseless. 

     She lost herself to that tumultuous vacuum of worry, sucking mindlessly on cigarette after cigarette, staring blankly, feeling like she could be someone’s dinner. Daryl’s predatory stride led him back to the diner where he carelessly threw a large bill onto the table and held out his hand. 

     “C’mon, gotta find a spot to bed down,” he mumbled at her, leading her back out into the evening followed by a trail of smoke still burning from a stubbed out cigarette. Saved at last.

***

     The road was blackened by the lightless night save for the highway lights passing in a blur as they searched for a motel. She relished this feeling of cutting through the wind on the back of his bike; she was neither coming or going, she was just en route. Relieved of the paralyzing stress of departing or arriving, the open road brought her comfort. She felt faceless, nameless, a nobody without a past. It felt good to just _be_ without having to be _something_. She knew that getting off the bike would inevitably give her her name back. Her face, her memories, their destination, their reason for being here. She wanted none of it. Wanted to wish it away into the empty space behind the expanse of his bike. In that moment she hated everything and scowled - but she was unable to keep it up when she realized she might look just like Daryl, with his well worn and lovely scowl. 

     As they pulled into a lot everything looked unreal, staged as if they were in a movie. She felt as though she floated weightlessly into the lobby of a dingy hotel, suddenly absorbed into salmon colored 70s art deco patterned wallpaper that just about took the air right out of her lungs. Having been lulled by the road and her own savage thoughts she’d simply stopped paying attention to the world around her. She was unnerved by the blinding power of her own fantasies. _Wait, where the fuck am I?_

     She came crashing back to Earth like a kamikaze warplane struck down by the enemy. Looking down at her feet she and noticed an aquatic pattern made of fishtails while above was painted cerulean. It gave the unintentional effect of being trapped inside a fishbowl. 

     Through the window reflected the buzzing and flickering glow from a neon sign high above the street. 

     “Hold on…just…gimme a second…” she mumbled to Daryl as she followed the light, walking stiff and dazed like some zombie in a horror movie. Pushing through the glass door she looked up at the sign, shielding her eyes from the intensity of its florescent brightness. She had no recollection of passing it on the road, let alone parking beneath it. Staring up at the sky in awe, bathed in violent if not unnatural lighting, she looked like a woman about to be drawn up by a UFO. 

     This was no UFO but a flamingo, shining down its electric rays like it was the day of judgement, leaving her baptized in neon. FLAMINGO MOTEL & BAR read a rusty sign dangling from the bird’s beak, heralding that pink apocalypse. _Oh I gotta stop thinkin' so damn hard…_

_“_ Girl, git yer ass back in here, aint havin’ ya standin’ ‘lone in no parkin’ lot this side a town,” Daryl’s voice broke the hypnotizing effect of the sign’s mechanical buzz. Fox wandered back inside like she’d seen a ghost, breathless and spooked. 

     “ _Name_ sir?” the motel clerk inquired, sounding as if he’d asked that question of Daryl more than once, leaving him mildly annoyed. He was old enough to have a gullet that shook when he got angry or excited or made a point, but his eyes were a calming shade of cornflower blue.

     Still trapped in a daze Fox misheard the question directed at Daryl and answered “Fox” before he could reply. She was preoccupied now with the sound of chatter and laughter wafting on the air from a bar attached to the lobby. It looked dark and full of noise and life. Had Daryl known where she’d come from, how she’d lived, he’d have understood her overwhelmed reaction to a bunch of flashing lights and drunk people. Instead he did what he knew best, and that was to act testy and irritated until everyone in the room acquiesced and accommodated him.

     “Just gimme a room on the top floor, clean one,” he barked slamming a large bill on the counter., sounding faintly like he’d been there before.

     “Alright then Mr. Fox, room 17 hasn’t been used today…” he stammered slightly, making his gullet accentuate his words boldly.

     Daryl grabbed the key out of his hand, a plastic flamingo with eyes that lit up when you shook it dangled from it like a bad joke he wasn’t laughing at.

     “Ya comin’ or aintcha?” he said loudly enough to distract her from the happy commotion at the bar. “Can go in there later, could use a beer,” he said in a softened tone as he tugged on her elbow. Sometimes, most times, he didn’t even know what he was mad at - just that he was and someone needed to cater to it. He didn’t want Fox to be that someone. It was a resolution he’d only be able to keep for about a half an hour, but it was an honest attempt on his part.

     Their room was quiet, only a muffled assortment of voices made it up through the walls. Tossing down their bags, he surveyed the room, checking the bathroom to make sure no one was in it. He learned from experience to always do so in seedy motels. Satisfied that it was safe and clean enough, he dropped down on the aquamarine bed. The bedroom was a slightly less violent array of colors than the lobby, but was still unsettling. Leaning back on his elbows he looked up at Fox and reached for her hand, tugging her into his lap. 

     “Gon’ tell me why ya been lookin’ like a zombie since I left ya in the diner? Aint said much, and ya lookin’ at this filthy motel like ya just landed on Earth. Wanna know what’s eatin’ ya,” he inquired in a genuine tone, easing his arms around her waist and peaking at her eyes playfully through the curtain of his hair.

     “Oh, I’m…I’m awright. Just…never…been in a motel I guess,” she said in a low voice, looking down at her hands. 

     “Never been in a motel, okay. No reason why ya’d ever have cause ta be, not a place fer ya. Where else ya never been?” he asked gently, pushing a lock of her hair behind her ear, watchingas she nibbled at her bottom lip. 

     “Diner” 

     “That all?” he asked carefully.

     “Highway” she sighed. “Never seen a light as bright as that one outside. Guess I never seen a lotta things.” 

     He didn’t know what to make of it. She was like a tremendous and detailed painting to which he was standing too close to have any perspective on what he was staring at. 

     “How bout ya let ya man buy ya whiskey?” Her face split into a wide grin at the mention of a drink. None of it made any sense to him at all. 

     Fox kissed him hard and hopped off his lap. “One thing before we go,” he mumbled, looking intently around the room. He spotted what he needed in the corner and bent down. She watched him unpeel a couple hundreds and fifties from a tight roll of money, shoving the loose bills into his back pocket. She stared curiously as he removed a piece of loose molding from the wall to uncovered what could only be a mouse hole that had been covered haphazardly. Tucking his roll of cash and a magazine clip deep, but within reach, he returned the molding and wiped his hands on his pants.

     “Where’d ya get that?” she asked, doing a poor job of sounding nonchalant. 

     “Get what?” he answered in a clipped tone without looking at her. She watched his face disdainfully as he lied, memorizing it in case she needed to recognize it later.

     “Think cuz I never been in a diner that I don’t know a bullet clip when I see one?” 

_Well, ya, tha’s exactly what I thought. Tha’s what anyone would think,_ Daryl said to himself, nearly chuckling.

     “Where there’s a bullet clip there’s a gun,” she said pointedly. She could see clearly in his face that this was one of those times he couldn’t reconcile himself with having to explain his actions to another person. It was actually kind of cute the way his cheeks turned pink with unexpressed anger. She could just about see the smoke coming out of his ears. To her total surprise she watched him choose the high road.

     “Went ta the pawn shop while you was in the diner, sold some things, got money and a 9mm ta blow ya man’s head off,” he said matter-of-factly, as if she’d asked him about the weather. He turned his body around and pulled up his jacket so she could see the Glock tucked into the waist of his jeans. “Happy? Wanna know ma social security number too?” he quipped, knowing it was a trick question. He didn’t have a social security number.

     “Quit callin’ him my man when you’re my man. Now come drink with me…” she said gently, resting a hand on his collar. She left well enough alone and didn’t ask him any more questions. It was one of his favorite things about her - she only asked about the important things, fearlessly leaving the rest to silence. He could never have known that it was her habit to do so because she’d just plum rather be left in the dark about the things she loved. The less she knew the more likely it wouldn’t break her heart until the very last minute. Maybe even then she could still feign unawareness, depending on the circumstance.

     “Yes ma’am” he said as he wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her softly. Spinning her around he gave her a firm swat on the ass for the second time that day, guiding her towards the door. He felt more confident about the business of compromise after their conversation. Turns out he could meet her halfway and please himself too. He didn’t need to tell her that he’d practically poured a hefty load of watches onto the counter in the pawn shop. Didn’t need to say that everything he pawned was stolen. That was a compromise he could live with. 

***

     They entered the bar with Fox’s eyes bulging out like glossy balls of wonder and curiosity, taking in the commotion. She froze at the door, stood straight and still as a lighthouse in the middle of a storm, her eyes shining like search lights looking out into a sea of faces. The atmosphere was jovial; working class men with rotund guts spilling over their belts like ooze happily sucked down their beer. Heavily made up women prowled through the crowd slowly, like hunters looking for a meal. Fox watched the prostitutes with unmitigated fascination, as if she were observing rare and exotic animals in their natural habitat. They were tall, long-necked as swans and in various shades of chemical blonde. Graceful in their heels, they moved with precision from one group of men to the next, calculated and nimble as ballerinas. The air was thick with the smoke of cheap cigarillos and Virginia Slims. No one there had the sense to smoke a decent cigarette, but surely it paved the way for equally cheap whiskey with which to drown the night.

     They sat themselves on a pair of empty barstools a reasonable distance from an old jukebox playing tunes from the likes of Hank Williams and Muddy Waters. The latter changed the climate in the room into a sultry smokehouse, sensual and holding its own secrets; the former charmed the air with heartbreak, making its patrons long for all the things they’d lost. It was no real surprise that the bar was filled to capacity with lonely johns; the music primed them with longing while the whiskey carried them up to the motel’s sticky rooms with its frightening decor and confusing wallpaper patterns. 

     The bartender nodded at Daryl, saying his name once as though he knew him. Daryl nodded back in recognition saying only the word “Morgan.” The bartender was a handsome man, somehow able to remain dapper in a stained apron. He had the sort of face that would make one naturally assume he was a good man who only wanted good things for other people. The juxtaposition between the slimy character of the bar and his genuine smile piqued her interest as she assessed the man. Either he was a good natured man who kept his darker appetites well hidden, or he was quite simply an angel no matter the quality of his surroundings. Either way, she enjoyed the depth of personality afforded by soulful eyes as he dried a beer mug with a dirty rag. 

     “Same?” the bartender asked with a good natured smile.

     “And one for the lady,” Daryl spoke clearly with a nod of his head.

     “Comin’ right up,” he nodded setting two tumblers on the bar and filling them both a quarter of the way with bourbon. 

     “And one for an old friend?” chimed a voice behind them unexpectedly. Both Daryl and Fox turned to see a girl of about thirty with dark brown hair parted to the side and teased to attention. Fox smelled her perfume, and the scent was tinged with the sticky aroma of hairspray. Daryl looked at the bartender and grunted his assent and watched as Morgan filled another glass and gently pushed it forward. The woman exuded the kind of exhausted beauty often found in women who’d had too many children. There was a careless, lazy undertone to the way her flimsy miniskirt squeezed her hips and in the way she sucked on her cigarette. She seemed like the kind of woman that always had long manicured nails. The kind of woman who’d drop her guard and share secrets with you in the bathroom.

     “Well aintcha gonna introduce me to yer ladyfriend?”she whined gentle as a kitten meowing for warm milk.

     “Got a better idea. Why dontcha ladies introduce yerselves while I go see a man about a horse,” he mumbled, hightailing it between the two women, seeking respite in the men’s room. The only time he’d ever been caught between two women he’d known in the biblical sense was when he’d invited them both to the same motel room for a purpose. Beyond that, he couldn’t imagine his presence could make the situation any better. 

     “Name’s Rosita. Ya got a light?” she asked, taking the empty barstool Daryl had vacated. Fox flicked a lighter Daryl had left at the bar and lit the woman’s cigarette.

     “Fox,” she said in a friendly tone. She felt confident in this bar. It was dim enough to hide her scars from the eyes of onlookers and the bourbon had loosened her a bit. 

     “Well, any frienda Daryl’s a frienda mine,” Rosita purred. Fox took to her instantly.

     “Guess he comes here often?” Fox inquired, trying not to sound as if she were wringing the girl out for information.

     “You could say that,” she answered, vaguely noncommittal. “He’s popular with the girls here, ya know? Got a way about him. And he always pays well. Makes it a real pleasure. Not like that fat fuck over there,” she said gesturing to an overweight, balding man with a brunette on his lap. His laugh was big and loud, but the sound didn’t lend his appearance a good natured quality, it simply made him more irritating and unctuous than he was already. “Don’t know why he still comes here. Nobody likes him,” she continued.

     “Daryl’s good to the women here then,” Fox stated more than asked.

     “He’s got a dark way about him, bad temper with thuh other men n’ all, but he aint ever wronged none uh us. An I quite like him,” she grinned sweetly around her cigarette. Rosita’s eyes drifted towards the door to the men’s room as Daryl emerged and she found herself lost in thoughts of the first time they’d met. When she was fresh as a newborn and scared to death.

_“Why’ont ya come closer? Aint gon’ bite ya,” Daryl grinned mischievously as Rosita edged closer. His hand reached out and rested on her cheek, rubbing his thumb lightly across it as he kissed her slowly. He could see in her eyes that she hadn’t expected that sort of tenderness. Hadn’t expected him to be soft and accommodating. In fact, the kindness he showed made her eyes sting with the threat of tears, making her swallow the throbbing lump growing in her throat._ Too late for all that now, _she thought firmly. Affection made her burn up inside, reminded her of all the sweet parts of herself she’d had to give up just to survive in the world. She’d been an outdoor cat for so long that she couldn't stomach a reminder of what life was like indoors._

_She melted into him despite herself, holding that moment in with her breath, unwilling to let it pass. She remembered this, what people did for love and not money. She’d done something like that once. Didn’t she?_

_“Why’ont ya c’mover here, then. Put my dick in yer pretty mouth.” Just like that the moment was over, his words a stark reminder of who she was and where and for what reason. She wasn't there to be babied with kisses, she was there because the winding path of her life was bereft of options and littered with the bad decisions. Most of those bad decisions were inherited, but who was counting anymore?_

_Daryl unzipped his jeans and pulled his cock out, thick and handsome. He took a swig of his beer and before he could rest the can on the nightstand she was leaning over him, melting around his dick like a small whirlwind of saliva and softness. He exhaled loudly, leaning his head against the wall and resting the back of his hand on his forehead. He felt all the bad things he’d seen that week drain from his dick, tapping the vein and easing his nerves._

_He was glad he went for a woman a bit younger this time - she hadn’t seen the worst the world had to offer yet, didn’t know she should stay far away from men like him. He could unburden his come into her like it weighed a hundred pounds._

_Each wet sound that came from her mouth made him suck a bit of air into his lungs. Each groan of satisfaction from her, no doubt just for his benefit, cleared his head like a gust of wind down a dirty street._

_“Thas real good…” he rasped as she cradled his balls, weighing them in her hand and feeling their warmth, cupping them carefully like two eggs she didn’t want to drop._

_“Jesus, God, lil’ more…” He was aware of his own length and girth and tried not to push the younger girls to swallow all of it, but he couldn’t resist himself with this one. She was just fresh enough to make him hard and a little cruel at the same time._

_Feeling the head of his cock hit the back of her throat he instinctively cradled her head, keeping her there a moment longer._

_“Hold me in your throat like that, keep it in” he whispered just before she pulled away and gasped, coughing against the bed. If he could see her face he’d witness the look of resolve pass over it like a cloud passing over the sun. A minute more of this and she’d be able to breathe again fifty dollars richer._

_“Fuck, hold it in for me. Fuck. You’re gonna make me come. Take it all the way in, shit,” he growled. “Relax the muscles in yer throat an it won’t scare ya so much when I push it in,” he advised._

_He let out a desperate moan as looked down at the mess he was making of her face. He reached his hands down and stroked her cheeks gently, smoothing away a streak of black liner running down her face._

_“You’re so good…” he cooed, stroking her hair back from her sweaty forehead. He was doing it again, soothing her warmly in a way she couldn’t handle. She craved hands like his to protect her from the world, and loving words of which she was getting just the smallest taste. She didn’t believe in fate or in luck or God or destiny, so she had no one in particular to blame. She wished she did. She wished there were someone to blame for pouring come over her loveless heart instead of granting a reprieve._

_“Fuck baby, I’m gonna come in your mouth,” he all but grunted as he looked down at her, giving her fair warning. Even those words were spoken adoringly. He held her gaze until his eyes squeezed shut, grabbing at one of her hands and clutching it as he came. It was as if they’d run a race together, side by side, and were now crossing the finish line._

_He held her face there until he softened in her mouth and collapsed into the motel blankets while he caught his breath._

     Every last minute of that interaction glinted in Rosita’s eyes, burning her irises like lightening striking over a dark and empty field. 

     “He ever call you Beatrice when you’re fucking?” she asked, knowing full well he likely already did. 

     “W-what?” was the only word Fox managed to stammer in response. You could have knocked her down with a feather. “You know who she is?” Everything in the room sounded muffled all of the sudden, as if its occupants were mumbling secrets to each other in desperate whispers instead of yelling to each other over the music.

     Leaning in close until her lips lightly grazed her ear, Rosita whispered,”It’s his mother. Shhhhhh,” she pulled away with her finger pressed to her lips. There was a malicious twinkle in her eyes, accented in a blue eyeshadow the glittery hue of the ocean. For a moment Fox was reminded of a story she’d heard as a child about a witch who poisoned the sea her nemesis bathed in out of jealousy and unrequited love for her husband. 

     With that Rosita left, leaving her drink half full at the bar, nodding to Daryl wearily on her way out. He returned to a shocked and ashen Fox. 

     “She spooked ya?” Daryl chortled.

     “Beatrice is your  _mother_ ?” Fox mouthed at him, unable to find her voice.

     “Let’s get outta here,” he mumbled. Finishing his drink in one gulp, he led Fox towards the lobby. 

     “S’gon’ be a long night.”

 ***

     Their walk back to room 17 was the longest she’d ever remembered taking. The geometric patterns on the walls made a kaleidoscope of the stairway, making her feel trapped and dizzy, as if she were traveling through a wormhole to another dimension. She wasn’t, though. She was just taking the solemn steps necessary to talk to her boyfriend about fucking his mother. No biggie. God loves all his children, doesn’t he? She wished there really was a God in that moment.

     Daryl shut the door and dragged a chair over to the window, lighting a cigarette. She perched on the bed and watched him, remarking how suffering and pain could make certain people even more beautiful than they already were. His face caught the moonlight as he sucked deeply on his cigarette, elbows resting hard on his knees, head bent in a pensive stance. He had the look of someone who’d been walking for days and was just now realizing he could stop.

     “She wasn’t really ma mother,” he began flatly, exhaling thick coils of smoke from his mouth. Digging in his back pocket he pulled out a slip of paper she immediately recognized as the one folded and nailed to his bed frame. He reached his hand out without looking at her, encouraging her to take it from between his fingers. The obituary was old, practically decrepit, yellowed and heavily creased, torn out from a newspaper dated March of ’72. ROSEMARY DIXON, 19, OF ATHENS,GEORGIA DIED TRAGICALLY OF A GUNSHOT WOUND IN MARINA SIDE HOSPITAL MARCH 10, 1972 IN SENOI, GEORGIA. MOTHER OF DARYL DIXON, MISSING SINCE 1969. THERE WILL BE A PRIVATE GRAVESIDE SERVICE FOR IMMEDIATE FAMILY MEMBERS.

     “That there’s ma mama,” he nodded toward the woman in the picture. There was no other word Fox could use to describe her other than a young kid. The girl looked fresh faced and, had the photo been in color, she’s sure there’d have been a rosy hue to her cheeks. She looked like one of those shy high school girls that develop late, getting their periods at seventeen, no use for a training bra until twenty. The kind of girl that never has any idea of a man’s intentions, convinced that if she were good then everyone was good, and that’s the way the world worked.

     “Pops shot her in the head five times before blowin’ his brains out. Happened on a Tuesday ah think…” he mumbled. “Found it in one a Bea's coat pockets…” he trailed off.

     “But…but Daryl, it says you were missing since ’69…” she whispered, face rapt with curiosity. 

     “Year I was born, yea,” he grumbled, seemingly to himself. 

     “Are you saying that Beatrice…kidnapped you? I don’t understand…” she flustered, tears in her eyes for all the things this man had suffered through at the hands of others. No wonder he was moody.

     “Called it “rescuin’,” always said she rescued me. Don’t know much bout it. From the looks of how ma folks turned out, she mighta been onta somethin’” he mused. “She done it ‘fore ma first birthday ah think. Like to imagine ah was too sweet a thing ta pass up, but ah know it aint like that. Maybe they left me someplace. Heard they liked ta drink,” he drawled lifelessly.

     “You never…asked her? Or tried to find out somehow? You’re not curious?”

     “Naw. I aint. God’s truth I aint. Don’t wanna know more than I already do. Owe maself a peaceful life is what ah figure. ‘Sides,” he continued,” scars came ‘fore Bea, wasn’t the other way ‘round. I’ont think fillin’ in the blanks would help none.”

     Fox was speechless. Of all the things she expected to hear…

     “Know yer wonderin’, since ya found her trunk cuz yer a damn snoop, and then I went an called her name that time…” 

_Yeah, that time…_

     “An Rosita sure dint help…Bea was a whore. Aint sayin’ it cuz that means she’s bad, she just was by trade. We lived in that cabin you been sleepin’ in long as I can remember, but we aint always been there. Reckon I’m from where my momma died in Georgia. But it’s like I say, aint diggin’ round for no details er nothin’.”

     “She make ya call her…ma?” Fox asked hesitantly, testing the water before plunging in head first into this family drama.

     “Called er Bea. She aint ma ma. Wasn’t tryna be.”

     “I heard you moanin’ her name outside - did you…love her…like that?” Her question was more of a whisper, not wanting to impose an inquisition.

     “Just miss er sometimes is all….” he trailed off. “Guess she fucked me up but good,” he sighed heavily, taking a very audible deep breath before going any further. “Ah fucked her. S’just the way it was.”

     Fox felt closer to him than she ever had to anyone or anything ever. While they didn’t share the same story, his was just as bizarre as it was traumatic and unavoidable. She could tell in his face and in everything he did that whatever fucked him up had done so at a young enough age to alienate him permanently from all the people on earth who didn’t speak the language of trauma. It made him a species all his own, unable to find others like him. Until now, at least. 

     “I like all the ways you’re fucked up,” Fox stated matter-of-factly.

     “Ya don’t gotta try an make me feel better bout it - “

     “I’m not. I wouldn’t know how if I wanted to. Look at my body - do you know how to make _me_ feel better?”

     “Nah, don’t work that way.”

     “Exactly. Maybe we don’t get to feel better. Maybe all we have is feelin’ the same way together,” her voice trembled some, though it sounded brave.

     “Well aint that a damn shame,” he snickered darkly. He gave her a lingering stare through the fog of cigarette smoke. “How bout you go in my bag an put on some them pretty things I grabbed from the trunk this mornin’” he growled. She couldn’t place the tone of his voice. It sounded equal parts aroused, resigned and desperate to change the subject. His ticks made sense to her now. His flashes of anger at even the slightest perceived rejection, like lightning heralding a thunderstorm, followed almost immediately by the urge to fuck. It was how he was taught to handle his fear, to soothe himself and regain control.

     “I can do that,” she mumbled, feeling small in comparison to the ghost of Bea and all that she’d done to him. 

     “Then get.” 

***

     Fox walked into the bathroom and flicked on the light, which was simply a bulb dangling from a wire in the middle of the ceiling. It flickered violently, as if it couldn’t decide whether to be on or off.  _I just miss her sometimes_ he said. Fox perched herself on the toilet lid, knees tucked under her chin, staring down at the tiles.  _I just miss her sometimes_ echoed in her head as she lost herself to it.

     It almost felt like the pieces of their stories, their life stories, were becoming inextricably intertwined, one scarring detail layered on top of the other until they were braided together. She wished hard that it had some ultimate purpose, a denouement, like in a movie. A movie filled with dirty, florescent motel rooms and cheap perfume. 

     Behind her, just outside the bathroom door, she could hear him moving, shuffling about restlessly, devoid of all his secrets. She listened as he coughed, stubbed his toe and let loose a string of obscenities. Those little noises, his sounds, struck her as comforting, palliative - sweet as church bells ringing in the air. Like music. His noises were perfect. The realization melted her as she rolled a pair of old, netted stockings up her thigh, hooking them to her garter. She couldn’t imagine moving around in the world without him. Or him without her. There was no going back. She was burning up with what remained of their past and nervous for their splattered future. _Why am I leading him to Negan, he’s gonna to die…_ The thought exploded inside her mercilessly,like a gunshot through the chest, burrowing and breaking into shards inside her.

     The bathroom door creaked as she opened it. She found him sitting on the bed smoking, leaning over a copy of Gideon’s bible likely found in the nightstand. The ashes from his cigarette fell on the pages as he stared off, so absorbed in thought that he hadn’t even noticed that she had emerged from the bathroom. His hands trembled to recall the details of all that he’d told her. He felt nauseous, exposed, regretting everything he’d ever done that brought him there. He wished he could leave her for good. Leave her and himself too. He was sick of them both.

     Fox could see it now, the shadow of Bea wrapped around him like a cloak, lingering, with him always. No matter where he went he had his face pressed into that musty trunk spilling over with ruined panties and moth-eaten garters. He had her bras wrapped around his throat forever, her corsets choking him to death. If you watched his eyes closely you could see an image of himself as a small boy of ten breathing heavily, crouching in his favorite hiding spot in the yard, just below the back window. The one that provided a clear view of the bed from any angle. You could see him watching the woman he lovingly called Bea take all manner of men into her bed, doing things he couldn’t possibly understand. But he would learn. As the years passed he would learn all of it. He would learn the tacit message in Bea's glance when there was a man at the door, a glance that told him to make himself scarce until the room was quiet again. You could see in his eyes that time when he was fifteen and he’d wandered back to the cabin, bored of watching her and touching himself, bored of playing with his dogs, to find her sprawled across the bed, sweaty and withered as a bruised flower. Could see an old man with a sweet smell of gin that hung around him like an aura as he tucked his tired dick into his pants and left money on the table. Could see the sheen of her glassy eyes as she held out her hand, her countenance sullen, hips ruined with the remnants of a strange man’s come. Holding out her hand to a boy who’d grown up tall and healthy, all blonde hair and quarterback shoulders, eyes so blue they didn’t even look real. A boy who knew full well she wasn’t really his mother. But what did the word “mother” mean to him anyway? Did “mother” mean the woman who’d always fed him? The only woman who’d ever hugged him? The woman who beckoned to him now, confusing the hell out of him and ruining his heart forever? Or was “mother” the woman who’d let someone scar his baby back so bad that it’d never look normal again? Maybe “mother” was the wasted woman who forgot him somewhere. He couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter.

     Fox didn’t have the words for it, but she knew what it was she had to do to reach him. An instinctual way of calming him, like he’d done for her in the bathroom at the diner. She walked towards him slowly until she was on her hands and knees crawling to him from across the bed. 

     He was shaken out of his thoughts with a jolt that caused more ashes to crumble off his neglected cigarette. It had long been burned to the butt. He dropped it between the pages of 1 Corinthians, the part that said “If I don’t have love, I am nothing” and closed the book, releasing a small gust of ashes. He was hypnotized, then, by the movement of Fox’s breasts as she came toward him, swaying back and forth like a Newtonian cradle. She looked soft and feline, topless and unashamed. She looked poised with intent. 

     “Hey,” she whispered. Her posture was steeped in confidence and she’d like to think she was channeling Bea through her pantyhose, back from the grave to have a last romp with Daryl. 

     Daryl did nothing but stare at her breasts and grunt in acknowledgement. He was lost somewhere in his mind, aided by the whiskey, and cared little to reemerge again. 

     “C’mere,” she said softly, passing a delicate hand over one of her breasts with the intention of luring him closer. Her motions brought him back to Earth and he glared at her - it was a look she read perfectly. It was the one he gave when something reminded him of his past, leaving him desperate to relieve his anger by fucking someone cruelly. He had a sadistic streak that was unparalleled, even to Negan’s; the difference being that Daryl indulged in mind games, while Negan wasn’t at peace until he drew blood. Fox thought on her plan fearfully for a moment. Thought that if she made a wrong step, got him just mad enough, he would do something regrettable. But there was no time left to mull over her options. Something in her had changed and it was never going back to what it had been before.

     He drank her up in a predacious gaze as she watched his jaw become tense and locked. She could smell whiskey on his breath and something else… At the very last moment she spied an empty plastic flask of cheap vodka tossed carelessly to the side of him. _Well, it’ll either make things easier or worse. I guess we’ll see._

     He descended on her, just a tad bit more sloppy than usual - but not by much. He could handle his liquor better than anyone, she’d bet money on it. If she hadn’t smelled a hint of peroxide emanating from his discarded bottle, she’d never have known he’d had anything more to drink. 

     “Put your hands behind your back,” she purred in a voice as seductive as she could manage. She heard him chuckle and snort a bit.

     ”The hell for? gonna tie me up?” he laughed.

     “Yup,” she answered blatantly, hiding her plan in plain sight. She watched him sneer, the sadistic look of wanting to inflict punishment never leaving his eyes. 

     “Tell ya what, ya do that, n when yer all done I’m gon’ make a meal outta ya just for suggestin’ it,” he growled. “Whatcha goin’ do then, sit on me?” he chortled.

     “Nuh uh,” Fox shook her head slowly, knowing full well her small stature and big eyes often misled people into thinking she wasn’t nearly as smart as she was. She knew her eyes said “trust me” and she only wished there were someone around she could let in on the joke. No one should trust her. He might be convinced of this when she was done with him, though. As a matter-of-fact, he might never turn his back on her ever again.

     She held his burning glare as she unhooked one stocking from her garter, peeling it off slowly, making a show of it. Then the other, sliding it down her leg. She maneuvered her arms around him, laving the sweat off his neck with little licks as he buried his face into her hair, glorifying in the smell. She could hear another chuckle rising from deep in his chest.

     “Here darlin’, lemme help ya,” he said as he crossed his wrists behind him. “Gon’ tan yer hide in ‘bout five minutes, so ya best make haste a ya knot,” he mocked. She hoped he was enjoying himself.

     “I’ll just make a little bow then. It’ll be faster,” she said daintily, feigning ignorance.

     “Knock yerself out.” She could feel him grinning into her hair as he said it. “Why don’ ya tie my ankles too while yer at it. Make a real go of it, put a lil’ bow there too,” he laughed.

     “I will then…” she spoke into his eyes, ”just like you said.” 

     Making her way slowly down his body, she kissed a patch of exposed skin on his belly where his shirt had ridden up. She did it so softly he barely felt it. 

     In a blink she was done wrapping his ankles in her discarded hosiery and slid back up his body to meet his highly amused gaze. She could tell he hadn’t even bothered to tug on his wrists to test the knots. For that she was glad; it was her time to play in the quiet before the storm.

     Pushing the hair in his face behind his ears, she was able to look at him unhindered, smile at him unabashedly, free to feel whatever she wanted, be whoever she was, without the threat of his anger. Or the threat of him leaving. She could just love him to her heart’s content and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

     She slid her arms around his shoulders while he lay amused on his side, and she nuzzled his cheek before kissing him slowly. She pulled his face closer to hers, sinking her tongue into his mouth until she heard him moan. He instinctively tried to bring a hand up to cup her cheek and found he wasn’t able.

     “Quite a bow you made,” he chuckled into her mouth. 

     “Don’t be mad,” she whispered with no small amount of guilt, pulling away from their kiss and looking into his eyes almost apologetically. Her voice was a higher pitch than usual and it shook just a little as he tried again to tug his wrists free. Then his ankles. She felt his jerky movements and sank into his neck, leaving butterfly kisses and tugging sweetly on his ear.

     “The fuck did you do,” he spoke sternly in a tone so loveless that honest to god it made her blood run cold. It was something she anticipated but could never be ready for.

     She watched his face as he gave freeing himself an earnest try. She could read the reluctance to do so on his face, such was his disbelief in her ability to restrain him in any capacity. 

     “Didn’t have a lotta books in ma room growin’ up. Just a bunch about motorcycles, repair manuals, boats and knots. I’m a wiz at it,” she said without a hint of irony in her voice. “That there’s called a figure eight.”

     And so it was. He was almost completely immobile. He could squirm. He could butt his head against hers. He could bite her. She hoped it wouldn’t come to that. She really did.

     “Don’t you trust me?” she murmured as she stroked his hair, watching his cheeks turn red with the effort of moving his wrists and ankles.

     “Aint bout that and ya know it,” he barked in a voice cold and tinged with growing anxiety. She was surprised at how quickly he bypassed his anger and got lost in fear in a matter of seconds. His rising anxiety bled out all of his rage in a heartbeat. 

     “Daryl - Daryl stop - “ she shook his shoulders gently, trying to gain control of the situation as he tugged violently and with rising panic.“Stop, stop - “ she said, smoothing her thumbs over his now sweaty brow. He looked up at her with a face that appeared younger than she imagined possible. For a second she felt untethered to the world without the reliable strength of his anger.

     He began panting heavily, losing himself the way she had in the diner. She didn’t lose herself as quickly and as violently though. Well, she hadn’t been tied up either. Her thoughts wandered to the night he’d stitched her up, when he’d held her tight. The memory made her sick to recall and she pitied him.

     “Ya gotta - I can’t -“ he was practically incoherent through his pants, losing the simple words he needed to convey his fear.

     “Hey, hey -“ she soothed, catching his eyes, finally assured he was seeing her and not some phantasm of horror his mind conjured up. She could see him calming , his breath slowing, could almost hear him talking to himself in his head. _She’s just fuckin’ around, calm down, calm the fuck down…_

     As he squeezed his eyes shut to gain composure she leaned up and kissed him, her hand gently, but possessively cupping his jaw. Fox started regaining her faith that everything would work out just fine as she felt him responding to her in kind. Even the way he kissed was different - it was softer, less demanding. He was melting. 

     “I can’t do this…” he breathed against her lips.

     “Yes you can, I promise you can - I need you to try for me. I can’t be the only one anymore. I can’t be so…open to you. So accessible. So easy to control. You can break me with just a look,” she said sadly. Truthfully. “This aint gonna work if you don’t let me in,” she looked into his eyes as she said it, her tone as sincere as it was deliberate. 

     “I can’t…” he said, looking close to sobbing.

     “I know…” she whispered, “that’s why I tied ya up.” 

     They stared at each other for a good minute in total silence.

     “Look, I’m not gonna do anythin’ to you that you can’t handle. Just wanna talk and touch you - but I wanna do it without you tryin’ ta control everythin’. It’s how it has to be. Ya gotta trust me,” she said.

     “FUCKIN TALK THEN BITCH,” he yelled in her face sounding remarkably like a child. That was actually the only reaction she felt equipped to deal with; she’d had plenty of practice.

     “I DON’T TRUST YOU. I DON’T TRUST NOBODY. AND YOU SHOULDN’T NEITHER.” He reminded her of a pit bull chained at the neck and foaming at the mouth.

     “Ya want these off, huh?” she said quietly, clearly goading him on and baiting his anger.

     “I swear ta god girl when I get this shit off me…“ he growled menacingly.

     “What? Ya gonna do what? Kill me? Beat me? Why don’t you just say it. When you get these off then what?“ She was in it now. Wading through his rage and doing her best to navigate its black waters so they can both be free of it. Even just for a little while.

     “I’m gon’ fuck ya ta death is what I’m gon’ do,“ he spoke in a voice she’d never heard before, not from anyone. It was almost like it wasn’t him speaking, but something else, something terrifying using his mouth to speak. She took a deep, shaky breath and trudged onward.

     “An how ya gonna do that, Daryl? Lemme hear it…” she asked, her hand making its way to the bulge in his pants, massaging it gently.

     “I wanna hear ya cryin’ an whimperin’. Wanna hear ya beggin' me…“ The room felt slightly dangerous all the sudden. It was the moment of truth. She needed to know.

     “What do want me begging for, tell me,” she whispered in a defeated hush. She could feel him growing painfully hard against her hand. “Just say it.” 

     She pulled his zipper down slowly, carefully, until his turgid cock sprang free. To her surprise he whimpered as she wrapped her hand around it. “Daryl-“ she said again. His eyes were shut and she could see him biting fiercely on his bottom lip.

     “Can’t do this, Fox. I can’t-“ he said, out of breath again.

     “Can’t what, baby? Thought you were gonna tell me how -“

     “Aint gonna do nothin’ to ya, aint never wanted to,” he choked against her, laying his forehead against her shoulder as she slowly stroked his cock with inexperienced hands.

     “Then why ya keep sayin’ it“ she gripped him tight, suddenly halting her motions, holding him there. She could hear him draw a pained and panicked breath.

     “I don’t know, I don’t know how to stop. I can’t, I can’t,” he began mumbling incoherently. The stress and panic and whiskey laid around him like a fog. “Don’t…Fox, don’t make me come,” he breathed into her hair as her hand moved faster.

     “Why not? Talk to me, Daryl, what do you think is gonna happen?” She stopped her line of questioning when she realized he might not know how to answer the question.

     She pushed him back, his head lifting from her shoulder. She could see his face was damp from crying and sweating. She had him there, in that submissive place she found heady and intoxicating. The place that brought you to the mercy of another, eager to please. The place where begging came easy. He brought her there all the time. She wouldn’t be cruel, though. How could she when she was trying so hard to teach him not to be? His eyes were wet and childlike, scared and tormented.

     “You’re so good, Daryl. You’re so good for lettin’ me do this. For trustin’ me right now. You’re bein’ such a good boy…” she regurgitated the words he’d once used on her, feeling their potency. It was stunning how there were simple words we all hurt to hear. She stroked him firmly, hoping to god she was doing it right. It felt too natural to screw up. Now that she’d gotten herself here, how far could she take it…

     “Don’ talk ta me like that’” he mumbled.

     “Like what, like how you talk to me?” He looked up at her sullenly with puppy dog eyes.

     “How ‘bout we make a deal?” she said, moving down to cup his balls in her hand, learning them by touch. “How ‘bout you let me do to you what you do to me and we’ll call it even? Then I’ll untie you an you can take it out on my hide like you said…” 

     The look in his eyes made everything worth it. She saw him fight through the mire of his thoughts to find the moments they’d spent in bed together, asking himself honestly if he would be able to take it. Take someone having that much control over him, control over his pleasure, taunting and teasing him, making him beg, making him vulnerable, until he had no choice but to surrender and let her reduce him to a sobbing puddle of come. That’s what he did to her and that’s what she was asking. He understood it now. Why he had to meet her in the middle, even the playing field, or she’d have to stop. He didn’t know how he was going to make it through this night without having a meltdown. He hoped she’d go easy on him, though he’d never gone easy on her. Not for a minute.

     “Gonna be good?” she asked with a straight face. It was do or die.

     “Well ya already got me tied up aint got much choice,” he snapped angrily.

     “You do, Daryl,” she said sadly. “You do. I’ll untie you right now,” she sighed deeply,” but then I gotta leave, so you gotta make that choice.” The words felt bitter and poisonous in her mouth.

     “Ya gon’ leave me?” he asked, eyes round and mournful, looking up at her with interminable sadness and disbelief as if he would never have considered that. Maybe that’s where he went wrong.

     In a twisted way he was glad she was doing this. He knew he could be scary. _She’s a brave girl, tyin’ me up with them pantyhose_ , he chuckled inwardly. A moment passed when he noticed she didn’t answer and she wasn’t going to.

     “I’m be good,” he mumbled, not wanting her to hear him. But she did and she beamed. _Mission accomplished,_ she thought savagely. He had just agreed to trust her.

     He meant it too. She could do what she wanted with him and he swore to himself wasn’t gonna give her a lick of attitude. He wasn’t gonna get angry. Wasn’t gonna sneer or yell or hurl insults at her. Wasn’t gonna resent her. He found himself begging whatever perverse and malevolent god that made him for a chance, a second chance a third chance to prove himself. All that was left for him to control was the decision to be good and the little prayers he whispered under his breathe.

     He was right in naming her Fox. She was cunning in ways that made him vulnerable and soft. 

     “I’m gonna take care of you, okay?” Nothing but the fear and vulnerability in his eyes answered back. A shade of blue the hue of anguish. The color of despair. 

     It shocked him when she moved both her hands behind his back, undoing the cloth that bound his wrists, repeating the same with his ankles. She paused for a moment and looked at him, waiting to see if he was going to renege on his promise. He only leaned over to cup her face in his hands and kiss her, pulling her down on top of him, willfully submissive. 

     “Take off your clothes,” she whispered, “I’m gonna tie you up again.” He answered her with a nod, and when he was done he let her pull his wrists up toward the headboard and secured them tightly. He didn’t even bother testing the knot. A flash of panic shot across his face at the new position, and she could see him swallow the impulse to kick her.

     “Shhh,” she comforted. Her hand traveled down his torso to his still swollen cock and moved against him gently, almost rocking him, soothing as the sea. His eyes drifted closed as she lay parallel to him on the bed. He didn’t see or hear her spitting quietly into her hand. There was no mistaking what she’d done when she gently smeared it as close to his asshole as she could manage without giving him warning. 

     His eyes flew open and he instinctively pulled on his restraints. “I can’t - no, no, no - I didn’t think you mean that - “ he stammered, fear swallowing him in earnest.

     “I’m not gonna be mean and I’m not gonna be rough - I just need you to know what it feels like to be touched in a way that no one else ever has… Tell me you’ll be good for me the way I was good for you…”

     He swallowed hard and nodded slowly. As her hand traveled back between his legs he made a final plea, his voice stuttering and sounding husky with alarm, “I aint never hurt you though - yer fixin’ on hurtin’ me.”

     “Didn’t you, though?” With those three words his face fell and he knew he was doomed. She could have told him that she had no intention of hurting him, had no desire to, that seeing him in pain would make her ill - but she thought she’d make him squirm a little. _Serves him right._

     “Do you wanna know how wet it makes me to see you like this?” she purred, wanting to pull him back from the edge of fear, making him burn for her again. When she was through with him he’d be begging for it.

     Without breaking eye contact she pushed two fingers into her cunt, bringing them glistening and shiny with wetness up to his mouth. He caught her fingers in his mouth and sucked them heartily with an audible groan. She watched him with rapt attention, removing her fingers and replacing it with her tongue, chasing the taste of her pussy. Returning her hand between her legs she wet them further.

     “Fuck, you touching yerself for me?” he groaned, finding himself on an entirely new plain of torment.

     She nodded but the display was short-lived as she brought her hands back to where they began. 

     “Be good…” she whispered as her middle finger slowly massaged the ring of his asshole. She muffled his gasp of surprise with her mouth relishing his timidity. She leaned over him as he watched helplessly, experimenting with pressing kisses to the head of his cock. He couldn’t tell whether he was in heaven or hell anymore. She moved her kisses down the base of his cock as she worked the tip of her finger inside him. 

     “You’re doing so good, Daryl. Can you take a little more for me?” repeating his favorite words in a twisted mimicry. 

     “Come up here though, don’ leave me alone…,” he pleaded. He was so hard she couldn’t help but wonder if it was painful. 

     “Gotta untie me or I’m gonna hate it,” he confessed. “I’ll show you how to do it so it don’ hurt.”

     She thought for a second, considered her options, and conceded, untying him and tossing the destroyed garment to the floor. Taking her hand he looked directly at her as he sucked her fingers slowly until they were wet. She’d never been so aroused in her entire life.

     He guided her back between his legs and she watched him close his eyes in surrender and concentration, nudging her hand gently until her finger was buried inside. She heard him breathing in long pulls, in and out, until she couldn’t push into him any further. 

     “Don’t move for a while, but when ya do go slow as ya can,” he mumbled, eyes squeezed shut. 

     “I wanna make you come with my hand like you do to me…do you think…?”

     He nodded silently, breathing deep. 

     “You feel so good, Daryl,” she whispered, pushing even further until her finger brushed against something that distinctly made him gasp. With rapt interest she began fucking him slowly, stretching him the way he did her.

     Something changed. Daryl began to squirm ;slightly, writhing in pleasure, pushing himself against her hand.

     “Touch me. Please. Please…,” he whispered, bringing her hand to tighten around his cock as she pushed into him smoothly, but with more urgency than before. He felt looser and more relaxed the longer she fucked him. She pulled out and added a second digit agonizingly slow. He’d been silent thus far, save the rabid sounds of his panting, but that was changing fast.

     “Harder,” he finally gasped, looking up at her desperately, his hand over hers, guiding her hand over his cock. “Fuck, baby, fuck…,” he whimpered as she watched him unraveling fast. She pulled her hand away from his cock, taking his hand with her, if only because she was making things too easy.

     “Be good,” she whispered.

     “M’gonna…please, baby…please make me… Shit, oh god I’m gonna come. I’m gonna come from this. I love you, fuck, don’t leave me I love you. Don’t leave me—“

     She’d never heard him cry like that as he splashed them both with spurts of his hot come. He sobbed through it, shaking as she fucked him, until she finally relented. He rolled over burying his face in her hair like a child hiding behind his mother’s skirts, trembling and grasping at her. He let out a desperate sob, flooding the bed with a life’s worth of regret, rocking himself into her in an effort to comfort himself. She’d finally broken him. She knows she did. 

     Now they saw each other face to face whereas before they only saw reflections of themselves. Now they could fully be known to each other, not just in part, not just from a distance.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just when you thought you would never be able to find a story that featured a pair of talking feet...
> 
> ...look no further.

In a dream Fox stood in a vast acre of tall grass with her back to a gray sun. Her body was dimly lit under the dull sky as if she were caught in an Andrew Wyeth painting, all muted colors and distressing stillness. A wind swept down in waves, streamed across the field, breaking its placidity, as if the hand of someone large and invisible were combing their fingers through it. Beyond the field, stained with the same eerie light, was The House. The House was as repetitive an image in her dreams as the hellish tree with its pit bulls snarling under a full moon. She dreamed them over and over. The House was colossal, and Fox could feel all of its rooms, its doors, and its walls moaning in unison like a starving animal. Something inside of it made her sick with fear each time; she could feel one of its rooms pulsing, pulling at the edges of her dreams as if a dog had it caught between its teeth and jerked at it frantically. 

The air became thick as smoke, billowing in plumes like something was on fire, and it colored all the things around her, draining it gray. Everything was swallowed by that ashen hue - the walls, the field, her face. It left her skin and mouth and eyes with the feeling that she’d eaten dust for years and was drying to a pile of flakes. That familiar sound of barking dogs again, wafting across the dead air, distilled to a shiver that clung to the atmosphere, refusing to evaporate. The odor of something burning, of everything burning right under her feet, was overwhelming. In that nonsense way that dreams can make even the most benign things frightening came a chorus of wailing voices from the soles of her feet. Then her toes, her ankles and all the bones therein, sang with eerie discordance,”we’ve come far enough, it’s over, we’ve come far enough…” She listened to them silently, aching with her own strangeness. Even in her own dreams she felt like a stranger.

_***_

Daryl looked down at her as she slept. He could tell she was having a nightmare but was too fascinated to bring himself to wake her. He could see her eyes moving rapidly under their lids, beads of perspiration collecting at her temples and rolling down her forehead like tears that disappeared in her hair. The sound of her breath was labored, she was panting, grinding her teeth, snapping her jaw and groaning. He was mesmerized by her suffering; it was a part of the human condition he was rarely able to witness up close. He eyed her curiously and it was like watching a house go up in flames - terrible, really, a tragedy…but can you bring yourself to look away from such a giant wall of fire licking at the sky? It’s just too beguiling to let go of right away. It was like that, just like that, how pretty she looked in distress.

She laid there, pretty as a picture regardless of the circumstance. If you could paint her laying there you’d call it “still life in terror” - such were the contortions across her face, proof of the dreamscape in which she was clearly lost.  He leaned his head down, burying his nose in her hair, and lapped at the beads of sweat crying their trail into her ears. There was nothing on her body that he didn’t want to taste and touch and smell, and her sweat was no different. He butted his head against her neck like a cat searching for tenderness. There were things he wanted to say to wake her, but he often found that all the loving words he knew had been buried inside him for too long. He wanted them to come out, but they felt rusted from disuse inside his mouth, needing practice to make the sounds they should. All his thoughts of love had burrowed deep, like a hibernating bear grown old in its cave, maybe too old to come out, forgetting all the seasons it’d been missing.

_Damn waste a time_ , Daryl mused. _Ya brain should have betta things ta do than go off cornerin’ ya with no warnin’_. He imagined the unconscious mind as a mine field rife with hidden disasters, always ready to conjure up the very worst things. _Then we’re all jus’ sposed ta wake up, pretend like everythins alright, s’damn stupid. Can’t trust nuthin’…_ He lost himself to that convoluted rumination as she wrenched herself awake, seeming to pry apart her eyelids the way you would a casket with a crowbar. She gasped for air, wanting to drown her dreams like a cat that was always bringing her bad luck. At least she hadn’t walked herself out the window in her sleep, or done something unmentionable to any of the dressers and chairs. 

She rolled her head to the side to find him looking strangely at her, fussing with stray locks of her hair and twining them around his fingers. He had the kind of face that could make anyone feel lonely; his eyes were small and blue, like trapped marbles lolling around inside an unaffected feline gaze. His exhaustion seemed almost biological - the black rings under his eyes like a permanent shadow, there for long enough that they’d burrowed into him, lending his eyes a drowsy and sunken look that she found compelling. They said something, but she couldn’t tell what. His brows were a gentle hood that hung over them in a way that doomed his face to appear perpetually boyish. From whatever angle, in whatever mood, he had the appearance of an young boy caught with his hand in a cookie jar, pouting to be released from punishment. He was like a pretty corpse flower whose nature is to smell like home to its prey - the closer you got the more likely you’d find yourself its dinner.

The turbulent moods they usually sustained, the panic in their blood, had fallen quiet that morning. Whatever savage intentions that growled and salivated inside them, forever prowling their hearts and stalking behind their eyes, was sleeping soundly. They both felt like open wounds drying in the wind, vulnerable and bone-weary. 

Her face became serene despite the nightmare. _One day honey,_ she said to him in her head, _one day we’re gonna suffer and die. But that day aint today, so this must be paradise._ Everything in life felt so much sweeter when compared to the prospective bummer of lying on your deathbed. She used that little maneuver often, and it always worked out well. She wasn’t sure what sort of motivational speech she was going to give herself on her actual deathbed if she kept it up, though.

She lay staring at him, her mind wandering to thoughts of probability, numbers flying kamikaze inside her head - the probability of all the people there are in the world, and how many of them were toiling somewhere. How many of them were watching television. How many of them were dying. How many were eating a sandwich. And how many were laying in bed naked as the day they were born, waiting to fuck and drowning in the bliss of anticipation. She’d never been lucky. Not a day in her whole damn life. But this time, this delicious handful of hours, she was luck personified. As soon as she realized it she forced herself to forget it, knowing better than to linger on it for too long. The thought would likely break her heart into a million little pieces and she’d never be able to put it back together again. 

They looked at one another, each on their side, usually feeling instinctively merciless towards each other, merciless towards themselves, merciless towards the world, but they somehow found peace in that moment. It was like everything that ever existed breathed a collective sigh of relief. 

Daryl leaned in and kissed her slowly and with unprecedented gentleness. It was everything a kiss should be - a little warm, a little wet, making time stop completely. All of their collective memories of the past quit its restless struggling. The exhaustive list of human needs they carried around with them, human needs that had never been met, became forgettable. Their missing pieces fused them together to form a whole, and it was better late than never.

“I’m gonna take care a ya, okay?” he whispered against her mouth. 

“Don’t know what that feels like,” she whispered back. 

“Me neither.”

“We’ll have to look it up,” she said quite seriously.

“We’ll figure it out,” he rasped in a voice that sounded melodic to her despite its characteristically gravelly tone. It’d occurred to him that he didn’t know how to love anything. He’d thought about it, tried to find some examples, but everything he thought he might have loved…he also hated. He assumed the general idea of love had guidelines, one of them being that it wasn’t also supposed to hurt you. 

 

Right?

 

He had no fucking idea. All he knew was that she seemed more like an actual fox to him all the time. Today she reminded him particularly of a fox cub, all vulnerable and new to the world. He was afraid he’d love her so much he’d squeeze the life out of her. He’d crush her in his arms, delicate as a cub, her bones popping as she gasped for air in his desperate, grateful grip. Love was a foreign thing he’d never get used to, and it was hard not to clutch it too tight, out of fear it’d come to know him and scurry away.

With his kiss he told her all of these things. His lips were tender with it, all the words he couldn’t say making them pliant and soft. Only the very tip of his tongue slid out of his mouth, luxuriating in what it touched instead of plundering until she relented. She moaned softly at the feel of it while he reached out to stroke her hair. Her hand reached up and gently rested over his, tacitly asking him to stay and never move again. He pushed himself closer, lacing his fingers with hers, and pushed them firmly into the bed as he moved on top of her. He could read her breath like morse code, a secret language that told him things for which they had no words. Things about domination and surrender and animalism and desire. _Maybe she really is an animal,_ he thought. _Maybe what she always wanted was someone ta be an animal with._ She was writhing under the right person in that case.

He wandered down, closing his lips over a tender spot in the crook of her neck that gave her goosebumps almost immediately on contact. He thought it was magic, that tiny spot, and biting it made him feel like a magician shaking a silk cloth until white doves flew out of nowhere.

His hand travelled up her side, fingers warm to the touch, sliding over her shoulder from behind. His other hand settled on the back of her head, cupping it possessively, tugging from the two points under his hands until he exposed the side of her neck. He opened his jaw and bit as if he were feeding himself on her, a mock vampire sucking at the skin. He could feel the piercing prick of her nails grasping onto his bicep in response; they were jagged like claws, chipped in some places, too long and full of snags. It felt as though something savage and feral was digging into him, and he liked to think of her that way - too wild and undomesticated to fuck gently without drawing blood. He hoped she was doing just that and that she would scar him.

He moved lower, slithering cleverly between her legs, feeling her respond by lifting her knees back and hooking her ankles, cradling his ribs and keeping him there. He found his way down to her breast and licked its underside, tasting what he could, and burying his nose deeply into her armpit. Daryl was tempted to ask her not to shower sometimes, but he rarely found an occasion where she wasn’t covered in a sheen of fresh, clean sweat. He let the hair under her arm tickle his nose as he took more of it in. She smelled earthy and human, with pheromones invisibly unfurling in the air, forming an imaginary hand and finger, beckoning him.

He kissed down the side of her breast heartily, curling his arm under her back and around her ribs, cradling her spine and pulling her to him, making her arch gracefully.

“I want you to watch me,” he whispered, looking up at her sweetly. He gave her that wide eyed look of seductive innocence that melted her in an instant. She would never say no to anything he asked with those eyes. She responded with a slow nod as if she were drowsy and in a trance, though she didn’t need to respond at all.

He dipped down to suck on her nipple, pressing his face into her breast, his cheeks feeling warm against her. She never realized the urgency so innate to sex until she stopped to breath and watch and go slow. Usually once their clothes came off it felt as though they were trapped in a tornado of hunger and lust and learned behavior, for better or for worse. There’s so much that would happen instinctually, and with such forceful immediacy, that they never had any time for reflection. Never had time to question whether they wanted what they did out of pleasure or an insatiable need for relief from isolation.Neither of them had ever learned the gratification of creating art - but that didn’t mean they lived without artistic urges. In fact, for them it was much worse because they had no outlet. Their visions had no canvas to rest on, their words couldn’t find the page. They weren’t dancers, they had no impulse to sing. Their suffering had no voice, busy as they were trying to master the basics of human functionality. Out of sheer necessity, fucking had become their art. Fucking encompassed all the violent shades of red in a Rothko painting, all the notes in Bach’s _St. Matthew Passion,_ every word of _In Search of Lost Time._ The difference being that their creation was never really complete. Nothing was ever made that wasn’t in need of constant remaking - and that alone made them stomp around like angry Mozarts without a song. They were each other’s own desperate work of art.

“Don’t close your eyes,” he whispered again, taking her nipple out of his mouth.

“I’m not, I won’t, I promise,” she gasped at him. 

“Can you - can you put your hands in my hair?” he asked, looking up at her with a glistening bottom lip that trembled so slightly that she couldn’t tell if it was actually happening or if she was seeing things.

All she could do was nod her head and comb her fingers through his hair gently, dragging her nails across his scalp the way she’d stroke an animal who’d been keeping its distance, now finally letting her pet its fur. She smoothed his hair gently, tucking it behind his ears, wishing she could have a look at his face without his usual curtain of hair. He laved and swirled her nipple with his tongue, tugging with his teeth playfully, growling low as he stretched it in a way he knew would make her shiver. It was hard to keep still and just feel it, let it happen, instead of pouring her energy and attention into looking and sounding pleasing, encouraging him or anticipating his needs before he even knew he had them. She tried to be quiet, rest her breath, stop her panting, and relax into him. Trouble was it felt so good it was painful. The ache in her cunt was real, its walls felt like hands grabbing desperately for something, anything, but coming up with nothing but air, hugging itself sorely.

He pulled his head back and stared at his hand for a while, the one that pulled and massaged the other nipple. As still as she was trying to be, she tugged his hair without meaning to, making him smile to himself. 

“You’re so fucking pretty…” he moaned softly against her ribs as he planted soft kisses down her stomach. “Never seen anything pretty as you.” His lips dragged over her scars as it moved down her torso _,_ dragging the tip of his tongue anywhere he could manage - she reminded him of wet silk. When he arrived at the bones of her hips, jutting out like crags from the valley above her sacrum, he stopped to comb his fingers through the hair covering her cunt, stroking it as she’d done to his hair. Burying his nose in it, he was reminded of how he loved the scent of her pussy so much he swore he could smell it in his dreams sometimes.

“Lemme see you,” he said softly, his hands sliding up the inside of her thighs. She watched him intently as he pulled them apart and let him massage them as she relished the sight,wishing he could literally eat her alive. 

“I need you to fuck me,” she stated in a matter-of-fact tone, never so explicitly describing what she wanted. It was simple to do and she wondered why she’d been so afraid. 

He bent his head to plant a lingering kiss on her clit before climbing between her legs. She was so wet he could have tripped and fallen on her cunt and still slide in perfectly. He looked at her face below him as pushed inside slow and easy. Two people never fucked so gracefully or sighed so thoroughly on contact.

“Don’t stop looking at me,” he said, meaning it as a direct command, but instead whispered the words in a way that sounded like begging. 

She did as she was told, looking up at him with eyes so wide and glassy they could have belonged to a child’s doll. 

“Tell me how it feels, me inside ya like this,” he asked, panting just a little as he pushed himself into her smoothly. In a fluid motion he shifted to pull her legs against his shoulders, folding forward and bending her in half, pushing himself into her with purpose and staying there. He hovered there for a moment walling off the motel room with the side of her calves and the curtain of his hair. It felt oddly as if they’d built a hideout all their own. Maybe no one would ever find them if they wished for it hard enough.

He dropped his face down and kissed her painfully slow, putting pressure on the back of her legs the closer he came, deepening the kiss at an aching pace. Her insides cramped deliciously at the deep contact and she found another moment to just be still and feel what was happening without having to react. It felt bizarre to be so present in her body.

“Tell me…” he whispered against her mouth, pressing tiny kisses on her face, starting with the apple of her cheek. The juxtaposition between the weight of his cock inside her and his butterfly kisses created a tension that only tightened with his question.

“It feels like I’m not alone in my body…I didn’t know I was so alone in here…” She gave him an honest answer, though she knew he expected something more visceral. “Fuck me, I need you to fuck me,”she whispered, looking directly in his eyes. 

With his pelvis nestled against hers and his cock stuffed snuggly in her cunt he was able to grind his hips against hers, moving them in a circular motion. He ate her moans, stifling her mouth with his _,_ doing what he could to control his movements despite the overwhelming impulse to fuck her barbarously into the bed _._ He leaned into her ear, whispering audibly, though she heard it as if he were speaking from the far end of a long hall, his voice feeling around for her in the dark. She wished harder than she ever had for her heart to stop because there was nothing left in the world that would ever feel as good as this. If there was a pinnacle of happiness then this was it. Her gut told her to just stop breathing, quit while she’s ahead. There’s something to be said for the kind of fucking that makes one feel as thought they have just solved all the mysteries in the universe. Even the stupid ones. His breath against her face explained all the secrets of life. His tongue in her mouth made her want to meet her maker. He moved against her slow and hard, every part of him inside her or sliding against her or covering her. He dragged his thumb over her clit just as slowly, slipping over the slick bump easily, thrusting deeper into her on the downswing of his hips, moving against her harder than before, but no faster. 

The weight of his body her close _,_ held her so close, as she felt the very edge of her orgasm build slow with the motion of his hips. Her clit felt so unbelievably sensitive it throbbed against the friction created by his thumb, pulsing like a overused muscle. She whimpered against his mouth as she felt her orgasm about to drown her. In response he thrusted faster, changing the form of her climax as if it were a thing that could shape-shift at his will, transforming it from a strong current that promised to drown her and generously sweep her thoughts into oblivion, to an atomic bomb that swallowed her, decimating anything in its path. She screamed her head off like a firestorm that scorches the air after an explosion, tears springing to her eyes, and the air inside her blowing out in a breath she’d been holding in for days. She couldn’t remember the last time she cried, or if she ever did. She didn’t know, she couldn’t think, she had no one to ask.

When she returned to her body she felt him thrusting in and out of her helplessly, just as enslaved by his own need to come. His hand searched blindly on the bed for hers, smashing it in his grip, surging inwardly as his hips pounded against hers, balls smashing loudly and repeatedly into her skin. There wasn’t much else to be done in that moment but become the perfect conduit, a consummate receiver. She let herself go limp and even opened wider as he spewed a lifetime of needing to be loved by something that wouldn’t make him hurt in gorgeous spurts into her cunt. He didn’t make a sound - he just shook. Even after he shot his very last jet of come into her, he trembled as if he were cold. As if someone had locked him outside in mid-December, closed the door and wouldn’t let him back in.

“I’ve got you _,”_ Fox murmured, holding him tight, her arms wrapping protectively around him.

 

As it turned out, they were able fuck perfectly fine without killing each other.

***

The Dalton Highway took them through Happy Valley before delivering them into the fateful and bony hands of Deadhorse. It was an apt name for such a dreamy town. Fox contemplated every house they passed, one sweet looking residence after another, scanning for horses and people. She wondered about their lives and if they were as happy as she imagined, or what it might have been like for her if things had been different. If she’d gone to grade school, high school, went to prom and wore an awful dress, let her boyfriend pin her corsage. Would she have kissed him behind the bleachers? Watched television while practicing her splits? Would she have bounced happily on the back of a horse to unwind after finals? It was intoxicating to imagine the kind of girl who doesn’t have nightmares, the kind who sleeps. She thought she would never be able to stop squirming about those fantasies. Wouldn’t it be more decorous to accept her fate and pretend all people are the same? Pretend her lot in life didn’t matter because we all share equal potential to find happiness? _Imagine how the lights from all those windows look after nightfall. They probably glitter like stars against the dark._

For now the sky was a shade of blue so perfect it made the clouds look fake, as if they were all caught inside a beautiful painting. Far off in the distance the horizon smudged the sky into a beautiful blur. It wasn’t until deep into the afternoon that things began to look familiar. The very corner of her left eye began to twitch as of it were sounding an alarm, a virtually imperceptible tic, recognizable to her alone. Her nerve spasmed like someone was hitting the gas on a car that wouldn’t start as they passed a sign reading WELCOME TO DEADHORSE. The words made an arc over the comical drawing of a horse lying dead, tongue hanging out of its mouth, flies swarming its carcass. Daryl pulled over a few feet from the sign and killed the engine. 

“Aint no other roads but this an it’ll cut off at them oil fields in no time. Gotta say where ta go, darlin’,” he said with his back turned to her, already feeling the tension throbbing in his head, splitting his skull like a crack through a frozen lake. 

Fox remained silent and like a sickness the absence of sound spread to Daryl until they both sat helplessly looking out into the trees surrounding them. White spruce stuck out like spikes framing them in an earthly beauty that felt endless. She could never have foreseen wanting to get as far away from such vast lushness as she did at that moment.

“Aint gonna get tha’ close to it, Fox. Aint nobody gon’ see us. Jus’ gon' look. Time comes, don’ wanna crawl inna nobody’s bedroom window an find a family a four and a house cat steada what I’m after,” he quipped, trying making light of a situation that was becoming more heavy and mournful by the minute.

Fox rose her arm slowly, one knobby finger pointing to the East, stiff as skeleton and just as pale. 

“East for two miles,” she told him solemnly. Her voice had the thin, breakable sound of burnt parchment paper crumbling inside a fist. 

Daryl grunted in response, feeling numb and detached from his body. He pressed forward, following her instruction, until they were riding slowly through an expanse of thick woods that went on forever. It was the kind of scenery children’s fairytales were made of:a forest with arms that opened wide and promised no light, only pitch black, and at its core an ogre, a flesh-eater, with a heart so black it could swallow the sun, protected by the surrounding woods like a sick body holds its infected heart close until the very last minute. Daryl eventually found a worn out path. He didn’t lead them onto it but followed it closely, eying it for passersby.They could both see the markings left from fresh bike tires as they made their way through the trees. 

Any light that made its way through the branches cast shadows on everything and the path blackened the deeper they wandered. Masses of branches reached for them, pulling on their hair and leaving cuts on their cheeks. He felt Fox behind him, buried against his back, smearing his vest with her sweat. Nothing around them could eradicate the clean smell of trees, though, and the contrast was consoling. If they closed their eyes, even for a second, that fragrance told a different story, a softer one, about the nature of what engulfed them.

It went on like this, almost interminably, until they came to a clearing. The house had been hidden well. Whoever built it deftly cleared the land and did not want to be found. Fox felt the bike slow to a stop as Daryl took a turn and that kept them hidden by the shadows. 

It took a few minutes of listening to the restless purring of the motorcycle before Fox realized that Daryl was sitting stiffly and had neglected to turn off the engine. Opening her eyes against his back, she felt the leather and embroidery of his vest against her fluttering lashes and gave his shoulders a good shake. She got no response.

“DARYL,” she whispered harshly, shaking him in earnest. He was magnetized by it, he couldn’t blink his eyes. It was a house. It was just a damn house. Abandoned, weather-worn, old as hell, and just a house. But he still didn’t blink.

Something inside of him acknowledged the two bikes parked side by side in front of the porch, but it was the movement he caught in his peripheral vision, someone moving behind the window, that finally jarred him. Fox’s sigh of relief was plainly audible. His hand shot out and turned the key, still too engrossed to properly reflect on the danger in which he’d just thrusted them. They sank, astride the bike, into the blissful safety of silence with Fox’s head still flattened against Daryl’s back, refusing to look at anything. Even if that meant she’d have to continue to sit on a black and shiny noisemaker roiling and vibrating like a lawnmower in goddamn church.

The house looked to Daryl as though it had been outlined in black ink, shivering at the edges, like an undeveloped photograph taken with shaking hands. Its awning sank low with age, pillared by legs wanting dearly to collapse, begging to be broken. He eyed its slanted windows, boarded up in places where the glass had shattered. A piece or two of its planks were knocked out, one still hanging from its hinges, like a fighter with a missing tooth who wouldn’t stop grinning. The foundation seemed unleveled, the ground crooked - but was it really? It couldn’t be. He knew it wasn’t. He knew. Daryl shook his head abruptly as if shocking his senses into complying with reality. It was no use, everything still felt crooked.

Graffiti sprawled across the dirty wood-shingle siding,symbols he’d never seen before, giant eyes and hands alluding to something that didn’t make sense. Some of the symbols he could read formed words, quotes from the bible that read “Jesus wept (John 11:35).” Another wall spelled “hell house” stained in a gory shade of red the hue of vital fluid. Hell house. The words lit up in Daryl’s eyes like a neon sign in a dark room. Hell house.

The vegetation that sparsely framed the surrounding grounds were scorched and dried out, laying like careless bundles of sticks that had survived a fire. Most of the property towards the back was covered by trees that made it invisible, and it was from this wall of shadows that a figure emerged. He was filthy, his nudity difficult to decipher beneath the grime, with bare legs stuffed into unlaced boots and bruises freckled across his back. His skin was a soiled patchwork of motor oil, images scrawled in black marker, and haphazardly placed tattoos that were poorly drawn in thin lines that spread across his thighs and chest. An apron hung from his neck, untied at the waste, and was vaguely splattered with a viscous substance Daryl couldn’t immediately recognize. Black rubber gloves covered the entirety of his forearms, glistening like obsidian under the dull light, slick and wet. His slimed fingers tugged the straps of a gas mask from his hairless head and he took his time breathing in the forest air as it slipped off. Looking down at his gloves, his body language denoted a moment of contemplation or disgust as he wiped them down his apron. Just like that he was gone, drawn back into the shadows that guarded him from the world - or the world from him.

Daryl and Fox were once again ensconced in a silence so still it was stifling, as if the house itself sucked the sound right out of the air. Even the sky looked motionless. Nothing moved. Had Daryl not been hypnotized into a zombified state he’d have likened the scene to the Bermuda Triangle.

Fox finally cautioned a glance forward, untucking her head from where it had been crushed against Daryl’s back. The house stood in front of her, lacking in color and blurry at its edges as if she’d been crying, sending her reeling with vertigo. Lunging her head to the side, she let loose a stream of vomit hot with panic and reeking of trepidation. The indelicate sound of retching jolted Daryl to life and he began rolling the bike backward, farther away from the captivating house.

“Jesus, c’mere,” Daryl whispered, hopping off the bike and pressing his bandana to her forehead once they were at a safe distance. He took her by the elbows and helped her off, leaving her only to dig through his pack for a bottle of water. Yanking the cloth from her hand in the abrupt manner that was his trademark, he doused it until it was soaked through and pressed it to her cheek.

“ _He’s going to see me we have to leave if he finds me he’ll never let me go I’ll never see another diner we have to leave,”_ Fox stammered, the words spewing out in a breathless torrent.

After a moment of heavy breathing she continued, needing to divulge all the secrets she had left, craving any kind of relief it might bring. She had nothing left to give up - it had to be that.

“My father’ll see me,” she finally said, the words let loose from her mouth in a hiss that suggested its toxicity, her eyes squeezed shut.

Despite having had the very worst afternoon that ever went unrecorded in the history of humanity, Fox noted with a modicum of contentment that yet another one of her wishes had just come true. Someone had finally held her hair while she vomited. He had even stroked her back soothingly, with the intention of comforting her. HER. She nearly smiled.

“Let’s go,” he said. It had been a weird day.


End file.
